THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


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THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


' 


in  tlie  last  ray  oi 
And  Che  last,  day  ol 


Sunset 
the  Year 


1872 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 
EPITAPH 

ON  AN  ETRURIAN  TOMB  BY 
FRANCESCA  ALEXANDER 


Portland,  Maine 
•THOMAS  a  MOSHER*, 

Mdcccxcix 


This  First  Edition  on 
Van  G elder  paper  con¬ 
sists  of  925  copies. 


PREFACE 


X 


PREFACE. 


or  now  some  ten  or  twelve  years  I  have 


1  been  asking  every  good  writer  whom  I 
knew,  to  write  some  part  of  what  was  exactly 
true,  in  the  greatest  of  the  sciences,  that  of 
Humanity.  It  seemed  to  me  time  that  the 
Poet  and  Romance-writer  should  become 
now  the  strict  historian  of  days  which,  pro¬ 
fessing  the  openest  proclamation  of  them¬ 
selves,  kept  yet  in  secrecy  all  that  was  most 
beautiful,  all  that  was  most  woful,  in  the 
multitude  of  their  unshepherded  souls.  And, 
during  these  years  of  unanswered  petitioning, 
I  have  become  more  and  more  convinced 
that  the  wholesomest  antagonism  to  what¬ 
ever  is  dangerous  in  the  temper,  or  foolish 
in  the  extravagance,  of  modern  Fiction, 
would  be  found  in  sometimes  substituting 
for  the  artfully-combined  improbability,  the 
careful  record  of  providentially  ordered  Fact. 

Providentially,  I  mean,  not  in  the  fitting 
together  of  evil  so  as  to  produce  visible 


Vll 


PREFACE 


good,  —  but  in  the  enforcement,  though 
under  shadows  which  mean  but  the  differ¬ 
ence  between  finite  and  infinite  knowledge, 
of  certain  laws  of  moral  retribution  which 
enough  indicate  for  our  guidance,  the  Will, 
and  for  our  comfort  the  Presence,  of  the 
Judge  and  Father  of  men. 

It  might  be  thought  that  the  function  of 
such  domestic  history  was  enough  fulfilled 
by  the  frequency  and  full  detail  of  modern 
biography.  But  lives  in  which  the  public 
are  interested  are  scarcely  ever  worth  writ¬ 
ing.  For  the  most  part  compulsorily  artifi¬ 
cial,  often  affectedly  so,  —  on  the  whole, 
fortunate  beyond  ordinary  rule, — and,  so 
far  as  the  men  are  really  greater  than 
others,  unintelligible  to  the  common  reader, 
—  the  lives  of  statesmen,  soldiers,  authors, 
artists,  or  any  one  habitually  set  in  the  sight 
of  many,  tell  us  at  last  little  more  than  what 
sort  of  people  they  dealt  with,  and  of  pens 
they  wrote  with  ;  the  personal  life  is  inscru¬ 
tably  broken  up,  —  often  contemptibly,  and 
the  external  aspect  of  it  merely  a  husk,  at 
the  best.  The  lives  we  need  to  have  written 
for  us  are  of  the  people  whom  the  world  has 
not  thought  of,  —  far  less  heard  of,  —  who 
are  yet  doing  the  most  of  its  work,  and  of 
whom  we  may  learn  how  it  can  best  be 
done. 


Vlll 


RBC/NeU 


PREFACE 


The  following  story  of  a  young  Florentine 
girl’s  too  short  life  is  absolutely  and  simply 
true  :  it  was  written  only  for  memorial  of  her 
among  her  friends,  by  the  one  of  them  that 
loved  her  best,  and  who  knew  her  perfectly. 
That  it  was  not  written  for  publication  will 
be  felt  after  reading  a  few  sentences  ;  and  I 
have  had  a  certain  feeling  of  desecrating  its 
humility  of  affection,  ever  since  I  asked  leave 
to  publish  it. 

In  the  close  of  the  first  lecture  given  on 
my  return  to  my  duties  in  Oxford,  will  be 
found  all  that  I  am  minded  at  present  to  tell 
concerning  the  writer,  and  her  friends  among 
the  Italian  poor ;  and  perhaps  I,  even  thus, 
have  told  more  than  I  ought,  though  not  in 
the  least  enough  to  express  my  true  regard 
and  respect  for  her,  or  my  admiration  of  her 
powers  of  rendering,  with  the  severe  industry 
of  an  engraver,  the  most  pathetic  instants 
of  action  and  expression  in  the  person  she 
loves.  Her  drawing  of  Ida,  as  she  lay  asleep 
in  the  evening  of  the  last  day  of  the  year 
1872,  has  been  very  beautifully  and  atten¬ 
tively,  yet  not  without  necessary  loss,  reduced 
in  the  frontispiece,  by  Mr.  W.  Roffe,from  its 
own  size,  three-quarters  larger;  —  and  thus, 
strangely,  and  again  let  me  say,  providen¬ 
tially,  I  can  show,  in  the  same  book,  exam¬ 
ples  of  the  purest  truth,  both  in  history,  and 

ix 


: REFACE 


picture.  Of  invented  effects  01  light  and 
shade  on  imaginary  scenes,  it  seems  to  me 
we  have  admired  too  many.  Here  is  a  real 
passage  of  human  life,  seen  in  the  light  that 
Heaven  sent  for  it. 

One  earnest  word  only  I  have  to  add 
here,  for  the  reader’s  sake,  —  let  it  be  noted 
with  thankful  reverence  that  this  is  the  story 
of  a  Catholic  girl  written  by  a  Protestant 
one,  yet  the  two  of  them  so  united  in  the 
Truth  of  the  Christian  Faith,  and  in  the  joy 
of  its  Love,  that  they  are  absolutely  uncon¬ 
scious  of  any  difference  in  the  forms  or  letter 
of  their  religion. 

J.  Ruskin. 

Brantwood,  14 th  April,  1883. 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA. 

PART  I. 

week  ago  yesterday,  I  looked  for  the 


I~\  last  time  on  her  who  has  been,  for  so 
long,  at  once  a  care  and  a  help  to  me. 

I  feel  that  her  life  has  left  a  great  peace¬ 
fulness  in  mine,  that  will  be  a  long  time 
before  it  quite  fades  away,  like  the  light 
which  remains  so  long  after  sunset  on  a 
summer  evening ;  and  while  I  am  yet,  as  it 
were,  within  her  influence,  I  have  wished  to 
write  down  a  little  of  what  I  remember  of 
her,  that  so  beautiful  a  life  and  death  may 
not  be  quite  forgotten. 

It  is  now  nearly  four  years  ago,  that  a 
school-teacher,  who  had  been  long  a  friend 
of  mine,  came  to  ask  that  I  would  interest 
myself  for  one  of  her  scholars,  who  was 
about  to  pass  a  difficult  examination,  that 
she  might  obtain  a  diploma  of  Maestra  Com- 
munale.  Giulia  —  that  was  the  young  girl’s 


3 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


name  —  was  a  pleasant,  fresh-looking  girl, 
with  honest,  bright  blue  eyes,  and  dark  hair 
that  curled  lightly  about  her  forehead.  Her 
voice  and  face  interested  me  at  once ;  and  I 
soon  found  out  that  her  history  also  was  an 
interesting  one.  She  was  one  of  a  family  of 
fifteen  children,  then  all  dead  but  three ;  her 
father  was  advanced  in  life,  her  mother  was 
an  invalid,  and  they  were  all  very  poor. 
There  was  a  sad  story  also  in  the  family. 
One  of  Giulia’s  elder  brothers  had  been 
married,  and  lived  happily  for  some  years 
with  his  wife.  She  died,  leaving  him  with 
four  little  children ;  and  such  was  the  vio¬ 
lence  of  his  grief,  that  his  mind  gave  way, 
—  not  all  at  once,  but  little  by  little.  Grad¬ 
ually  he  began  to  neglect  his  work,  his 
language  and  behaviour  were  agitated  and 
unlike  his  usual  self,  he  wandered  much 
about  without  an  object,  —  and  one  day  the 
report  of  a  pistol  was  heard  in  his  room, 
and  that  was  the  last !  The  grandparents  had 
taken  home  all  the  poor  little  orphans,  and 
it  was  to  assist  in  supporting  them  that 
Giulia  wished  to  be  a  teacher. 

She  had  been  studying  very  hard  —  so 
hard  that  she  had  finished  in  six  months  the 
studies  which  should  have  occupied  a  year ! 
She  was  an  energetic  little  body,  made  bold 
by  the  necessities  of  the  children  ;  and  she 


4 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 

went  about  to  the  various  offices,  and  had  all 
the  needful  papers  made  out,  and  obtained 
introductions  to  all  those  persons  whom  she 
thought  likely  to  help  her  in  her  object.  Of 
course  I  was  too  happy  to  do  what  I  could 
—  very  little  as  it  happened  —  and  Giulia’s 
youth,  and  hopefulness,  and  bright  spirit, 
were  like  sunshine  in  my  room.  She  was 
much  there  in  those  days,  talking  over  her 
prospects,  and  what  was  to  be  done.  One 
day  she  came  with  a  very  beautiful  compan¬ 
ion,  a  little  girl  of  sixteen  :  “  I  have  brought 
my  sister ;  she  wanted  to  see  you,”  she  said, 
by  way  of  apology ;  and  that  was  how  I 
came  to  know  Ida. 

She  was  very  lovely  then ;  I  do  not  think 
that  any  of  the  pictures  which  I  afterwards 
took  of  her,  were  quite  so  pretty  as  she  was. 
Let  me  see  if  I  can  describe  her.  She  was  a 
little  taller  than  Giulia,  and  perhaps  rather 
too  slight  for  perfect  beauty,  but  singularly 
graceful  both  in  form  and  movement.  Such 
a  shape  as  the  early  painters  used  to  imagine 
for  their  young  saints,  with  more  spirit  than 
substance  about  it;  her  hair  was  dark, 
almost  black,  quite  straight,  as  fine  as  silk, 
soft,  heavy,  and  abundant ;  and  she  wore  it 
turned  back  from  her  face,  as  was  the  fash¬ 
ion  just  then,  displaying  to  the  best  advan¬ 
tage  a  clear,  broad,  intellectual  forehead. 


5 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


She  had  a  regular  oval  face,  rather  small 
than  large  ;  with  soft  black  eyes  of  wonder¬ 
ful  beauty  and  gentleness,  shaded  by  perhaps 
the  longest  lashes  which  I  ever  saw  —  with 
a  pretty  little  straight  nose  (which  gave  a 
peculiar  prettiness  to  her  profile),  and  a 
mouth  not  very  small,  but  beautiful  in  form 
and  most  delicate  in  expression.  Her  teeth 
were  very  white,  brilliant,  and  regular ;  her 
complexion  wras  dark,  without  much  colour, 
except  in  her  lips,  which  were  of  a  deep  red. 
When  she  was  a  little  out  of  breath,  how¬ 
ever,  or  when  she  was  animated  in  talking, 
a  bright  glow  used  to  come  up  in  her  cheeks, 
always  disappearing  almost  before  one  knew 
that  it  was  there.  She  and  I  made  great 
friends  during  that  first  visit :  she  liked  me, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  because  Giulia  liked 
me ;  and  on  my  part,  it  would  have  been 
impossible  that  I  should  not  love  anything 
so  beautiful  and  innocent  and  affectionate. 
I  did  not  let  her  go  until  we  had  arranged 
that  I  should  take  her  likeness  ;  and  from 
that  time  forward,  as  long  as  Ida  lived,  I 
was  almost  half  the  time  employed  either  in 
drawing  or  painting  her.  It  was  seldom  that 
I  could  keep  any  picture  of  her  for  more 
than  a  little  while :  every  one  used  to  ask 
me  where  I  had  found  such  a  beautiful  face. 

It  is  pleasant  to  me  now  to  look  back  at 


6 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


those  days,  before  any  shadow  came  over 
that  peaceful  and  most  innocent  life.  Those 
long  happy  mornings  in  my  painting  room, 
when  she  used  to  become  so  excited  over 
my  fairy  stories  and  ballads,  and  tried  to 
learn  them  all  by  heart  to  tell  to  Giulia;  and 
when  she,  in  turn,  confided  to  me  all  the 
events  and  interests  of  her  short  life.  One 
thing  I  soon  discovered,  —  that  she  was 
quite  as  beautiful  in  mind  as  in  person.  If 
I  tell  all  the  truth  of  what  Ida  was,  I  am 
sure  that  it  will  seem  to  any  one  who  did 
not  know  her  as  if  I  were  inventing.  She 
seemed,  even  in  those  early  days,  like  one 
who  lived  nearer  heaven  than  other  people. 
I  have  never  quite  understood  it  myself; 
she  had  been  brought  up  more  in  the  world 
than  is  usual  with  Italian  girls,  for  (as  I 
have  said)  her  parents  were  poor,  and  her 
mother  sickly,  and  she  had  been  obliged, 
even  from  early  childhood,  to  work  hard  for 
her  daily  bread.  It  seemed  almost  impos¬ 
sible  that  no  bad  influence  should  ever  have 
come  near  her ;  but  if  it  ever  did,  it  passed 
by  without  harming  her,  for  there  was  noth¬ 
ing  in  her  on  which  it  could  take  hold.  Her 
mind  seemed  to  turn  naturally  to  everything 
that  was  good  and  beautiful,  while  -what  was 
evil  made  no  impression  on  her,  but  passed 
by  her  as  if  it  had  not  been. 


7 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


She  lived  in  a  dismal  old  house,  up  a  great 
many  stairs,  in  one  of  the  poorest  streets  of 
the  city.  All  this  does  not  sound  very  pleas¬ 
ant  :  but  what  did  Ida  see  there  ?  Any  one 
else  would  have  seen,  looking  from  the  win¬ 
dows  there,  dirty  old  houses  out  of  repair, 
crammed  full  of  poverty,  broken  windows, 
leaky  roofs,  rickety  stairs,  rags  hung  out  to 
dry  from  garret  windows,  pale,  untidy,  dis¬ 
couraged  women,  neglected  children.  Ida 
saw  the  bright  sky,  and  the  swallows  that 
built  under  the  eaves,  and  the  moss  and 
flowers  that  grew  between  the  tiles  on  the 
old  roofs.  And  from  one  window  she  could 
see  a  little  far-away  glimpse  of  the  country, 
and  from  another  she  could  look  down  into 
a  garden.  She  saw  the  poor  neighbours 
besides,  but  to  her  they  were  all  people  to 
be  loved,  and  pitied,  and  sympathised  with. 
Whatever  there  was,  good,  in  any  of  them, 
she  found  it  out,  and  ignored  everything 
else.  It  was  a  peculiarity  of  my  Ida,  that 
all  the  people  with  whom  she  was  intimately 
acquainted  were,  in  some  way  or  other, 
“  very  remarkable.”  She  never  admitted 
that  they  had  any  faults.  One  old  woman 
whose  temper  was  so  fearful  that  nobody 
could  live  with  her,  was  “  a  good  old  woman, 
but  a  little  nervous.  She  had  been  an  inva¬ 
lid  for  many  years,  and  was  a  great  sufferer, 


8 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


and  naturally  she  had  her  days  when  things 
worried  her.”  An  idle,  dirty  old  fellow,  who 
lodged  in  the  same  house,  — who  lived  prin¬ 
cipally  by  getting  into  debt  at  one  eating- 
house  until  the  owner  wrould  trust  him  no 
longer,  and  then  going  to  another,  —  she 
described  as  “  an  unfortunate  gentleman  in 
reduced  circumstances,  who  had  been  edu¬ 
cated  in  high  life,  and  consequently  had 
never  learnt  to  do  anything.  Besides,  he 
was  a  poet,  and  poets  are  always  peculiar.” 
A  profane  man,  who  talked  atheism,  she 
charitably  said  was  probably  insane.  Poor 
little  Ida !  The  time  came  when  her  eyes 
were  opened  by  force ;  w’hen  she  sawr  sin  in 
its  ugliness  in  the  person  of  one  who  was 
very  dear  to  her,  —  and  then  she  died. 

But  that  was  some  time  afterwards.  I  am 
writing  now  of  that  first  happy  winter,  when 
I  Avas  coming,  little  by  little,  to  know  what 
my  companion  was.  All  that  she  was,  I 
never  knew  till  after  she  was  gone.  Ida  was 
a  little  seamstress,  and  she  wras  then  only 
beginning  to  earn  money.  Thirty  centimes 
a  day1  was  what  she  gained  when  she 
w’orked  for  a  shop,  and  for  this  she  used 
to  sit  at  the  sewing  machine  until  past  mid- 

i  Three  English  pence.  The  larger  payment  at 
private  houses,  a  franc,  is  one  hundred  centimes,  or 
tenpence. 


9 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


night.  Sometimes  she  used  to  sew  for  ladies 
at  their  houses,  and  then  she  earned  a  franc 
a  day  or  more. 

Her  parents  allowed  her  to  keep  all  her 
own  earnings,  that  she  might  clothe  herself ; 
but  there  was  always  something  that  she 
wanted  for  father,  or  mother,  or  Giulia,  or 
the  little  orphans,  more  than  anything  that 
she  wanted  for  herself ;  so  that  her  own 
dress  was  always  kept  down  to  objects  of 
the  strictest  necessity.  I  am  sure  it  was  not 
that  she  did  not  care  for  pretty  things  as 
much  as  any  other  girl :  if  any  of  the  ladies 
where  she  worked  gave  her  a  piece  of  ribbon, 
or  a  scrap  of  coloured  silk,  or  anything  else 
that  was  bright  and  pretty,  it  was  an  unend¬ 
ing  amusement  to  make  it  up  in  some  fanci¬ 
ful  and  becoming  style,  whether  for  Giulia 
or  herself,  though  she  always  enjoyed  the 
most  working  for  Giulia.  But  generally  she 
was  engaged  in  saving  money,  a  few  cen¬ 
times  at  a  time,  to  buy  a  present  for  some¬ 
body,  which  was  a  great  secret,  confided  to 
me  under  promise  of  silence.  One  centime  a 
day  she  always  laid  by  for  “the  poor.”  “  It 
is  very  little,”  she  said,  “  but  I  save  it  up 
until  Sunday,  and  it  is  enough  to  buy  a  piece 
of  bread  for  an  old  blind  man,  who  always 
comes  to  us  for  his  breakfast  on  Sunday 
morning.” 


io 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


When  the  time  came  for  Giulia  to  pass 
her  examination,  Ida  came  to  my  room  every 
day,  and  sometimes  twice  a  day,  to  tell  me 
what  progress  she  was  making.  Often  she 
came  when  I  was  not  at  home,  and  then 
she  would  write  a  note  with  my  pencil  on  a 
scrap  of  paper,  and  pin  it  up  to  the  window- 
frame,  where  I  should  be  sure  to  see  it.  I 
have  kept  some  of  these  little  notes  up  to 
this  time,  written  in  a  childish  round  hand, 
telling  how  many  “  marks  ”  Giulia  had 
received  for  geography,  and  how  many  for 
grammar,  all  signed  in  the  same  way  —  “  La 
sua  Ida  che  li  vuol  tanto  bene  !  ”  As  long  as 
she  lived,  her  letters  were  always  signed  in 
the  same  way.  Often  I  would  find  two  or 
three  flowers,  carefully  arranged  by  her 
hand,  in  a  glass  of  water  on  my  table  ;  or,  if 
I  had  left  my  door  locked,  they  would  be 
made  into  a  fanciful  bunch,  and  tied  with  a 
bit  of  blue  ribbon  on  the  door-handle.  Giulia 
passed  her  examination  triumphantly,  as  she 
deserved  to  do ;  and  soon  after  obtained  a 
place  as  teacher  in  one  of  the  free  schools. 
I  remember  that  there  was  a  great  excite¬ 
ment  at  that  time  with  regard  to  a  new 
dress,  which  Giulia  was  to  wear  when  she 
took  charge  of  her  class.  Ida  had  been 
saving  money  for  a  great  while  to  buy  that 
dress  —  it  was  a  grey  alpaca  —  and  it  was 


ii 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


all  made,  and  trimmed,  and  ready  to  put  on, 
before  Giulia  knew  anything  about  it.  First 
I  saw  the  dress  unmade,  and  then  made ; 
and  then  Giulia  hurried  over  to  show  it  to 
me,  supposing  that  I  should  be  as  much  sur¬ 
prised  as  she  was. 

Meanwhile  the  winter  had  passed  into 
spring,  and  spring  was  wearing  fast  into 
summer,  and  my  pretty  Ida  was  beginning 
to  look  rather  poorly.  She  grew  very  thin, 
and  had  but  little  appetite ;  I  thought  also 
that  she  looked  rather  sad  —  but  if  I  asked 
her  what  was  the  matter,  she  always  said 
that  she  was  tired,  and  felt  the  warm 
weather.  I  forgot  to  say  that  her  mother 
let  rooms  to  lodgers ;  by  the  way,  the  vaga¬ 
bond  poet  of  whom  I  have  spoken  was  a 
lodger  of  hers.  A  man  who  had  lodged  with 
them  for  some  time  had  just  then  left  them ; 
and  a  military  officer  had  taken  his  room. 
I  remember  still  the  day  when  Ida  first  spoke 
to  me  of  this  man,  and  seemed  pleased  that 
her  mother  had  found  a  new  lodger  instead 
of  the  old  one.  Oh,  if  I  could  only  have 
warned  her  against  him  then  1 

But,  as  I  have  said,  Ida  seemed  to  be 
fading,  and  I  felt  pretty  anxious  about  her. 
We  -were  going  up  to  the  mountains  about 
that  time,  and  when  we  parted  she  said, 
“  Perhaps  you  will  not  find  me  when  you 


12 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


come  back ;  I  feel  as  if  I  should  not  live 
very  long.”  But  she  could  give  me  no 
reason  for  this  presentiment,  and  I  attached 
no  great  importance  to  it,  thinking  only  that 
she  was  weak  and  nervous.  After  we  had 
been  for  a  few  weeks  at  S.  Marcello,  I 
received  a  letter  from  her,  almost  unintelli¬ 
gible,  written  evidently  in  great  distress  of 
mind,  in  which  she  entreated  me,  if  possible, 
to  come  to  Florence  that  she  might  speak 
to  me,  as  she  was  in  much  trouble.  She 
added  that  she  wished  she  had  confided  in 
me  sooner ;  and  begged  me  in  no  case  to  let 
any  one  know  that  I  had  received  a  letter 
from  her,  but  to  direct  my  answer  to  the 
post-office,  and  not  to  the  house.  I  was 
greatly  alarmed,  and  wrote  to  her  without 
losing  a  minute,  telling  her  that  it  was 
impossible  that  I  could  go  to  Florence  (as 
the  journey  was  much  longer  than  I  had 
supposed),  and  begging  her  to  write  again 
immediately,  and  tell  me  what  was  really  the 
matter.  After  two  or  three  days  of  almost 
unbearable  suspense,  her  answer  came, — 
long  enough,  and  plain  enough,  this  time. 
I  wish  now  that  I  had  kept  her  letter,  that 
I  might  tell  this  part  of  her  sad  story  in  her 
own  words.  In  my  own,  it  is  hard  for  me 
to  tell  it  without  speaking  more  harshly 
than  I  wTould,  of  one  who  has  at  least  this 


l3 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


claim  on  my  forbearance  —  that  Ida  loved 
him ! 

The  military  officer  of  whom  I  have  spoken, 
who  had  then  been  for  three  or  four  months 
in  the  house,  had  fallen  in  love  with  Ida,  in 
his  fashion  :  that  is,  she  was  not  his  first 
love,  probably  not  his  last,  but  she  pleased 
him.  He  was  a  man  of  not  far  from  forty 
years  old,  good-looking  in  a  certain  way, 
broad-shouldered,  tall,  fresh-coloured ;  and 
very  much  of  a  gentleman  in  his  manners. 
He  was  a  man  of  talent  besides,  and  he  had 
travelled  much  in  his  military  life,  and  could 
tell  interesting  stories  of  strange  places  and 
people.  He  had  also  read  a  great  deal, 
and  could  talk  of  various  authors,  and  quote 
poetry  on  all  occasions.  As  a  soldier  and 
an  Italian,  he  had,  I  believe,  done  himself 
honour. 

I  wish  I  could  think  that  there  was  some 
foundation  of  truth  in  the  passionate  attach¬ 
ment  which  he  professed  for  Ida.  I  suppose 
he  was  fond  of  her,  somewhat,  for  I  do  not 
see  what  reason  he  could  have  had  for  pre¬ 
tending  it.  He  said  himself,  afterwards,  by 
w’ay  of  excuse,  that  he  wTas  “  blinded  by  pas¬ 
sion  ” :  so  let  it  be.  Ida  was  then  just 
seventeen,  growing  prettier  every  day,  a  del¬ 
icate,  spiritual  little  creature,  looking  as  if 
the  wind  might  blow  her  away ;  and  this 


14 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


military  hero,  with  the  broad  shoulders  and 
the  fair  hair,  threw  himself  at  her  feet,  so  to 
say ;  courted  her  passionately,  desperately  ; 
and  Ida  gave  him  her  heart  unreservedly, 
and  trusted  him  as  she  trusted  her  father  and 
mother.  I  sometimes  fancy  that  this  man 
made  love  to  Ida  at  first  partly  to  amuse 
himself,  to  see  if  he  could  not  put  something 
of  this  world  into  the  heart  of  this  gentle 
little  saint,  who  lived  always,  as  it  were,  half 
in  heaven.  But  if  so,  he  was  disappointed. 
This  love  once  admitted  into  her  heart 
became,  like  all  her  other  feelings,  some¬ 
thing  sacred  and  noble;  so  that,  even  at 
this  day,  it  seems  to  me  in  a  certain  way  to 
ennoble  the  object  of  it,  uirworthy  as  he 
was ;  and  I  cannot  say  a  word  that  might 
bring  discredit  on  his  name. 

He  washed  to  marry  her  immediately  ;  and 
her  father  and  mother,  simple,  pious,  kind- 
hearted  people,  who  would  have  given  their 
lives  for  the  happiness  of  their  children,  con¬ 
sented  willingly.  They  knew  that  he  was 
poor  and  an  orphan,  but  they  were  not 
ambitious  for  their  pretty  daughter ;  and 
they  promised  to  take  him  home,  and  keep 
him  as  a  son  of  their  own.  But  now  came 
the  difficulty.  L - 1  was  an  officer  in 

x  L  is  not  the  initial  of  the  lover’s  real  name,  nor  of 
that  by  which  Ida  called  him,  which  is  used  by  Fran¬ 
cesca  in  her  manuscript. 


*5 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


the  army,  and  by  the  present  law  in  Italy  an 
officer,  until  he  reaches  some  particular  rank 
—  I  think  that  of  colonel,  —  is  not  permitted 
to  marry,  unless  the  woman  of  his  choice 

has  a  certain  amount  of  dowry.  L - 

had  about  two  years  and  a  half  left  to  serve 
in  the  army,  before  he  would  be  entitled  to 
a  pension.  Now,  Ida  was  so  very  young 
that  there  seemed  nothing  very  dreadful  in 
the  idea  of  waiting,  but  her  lover  was  a 
great  deal  too  ardent  for  that.  His  pro¬ 
posal  was  —  and  he  would  hear  of  nothing 
else  —  that  they  should  be  married  immedi¬ 
ately  by  a  religious  marriage ,  leaving  the  civil 
marriage — the  only  one  now  legal  —  until 
another  time,  when  his  career  in  the  army 
should  be  finished.  The  poor  child  knew 
nothing  of  civil  and  religious  marriages,  but 
she  was  a  little  frightened  at  the  idea  that 
her  marriage  would  be  a  secret  from  the 
whole  world ;  and  altogether  she  was  far 
from  happy,  —  he  told  her  so  many  things 
that  she  was  never  to  tell  any  one,  and  such 
fearful  ruin  was  to  overtake  them  both  if 
ever  their  union  was  discovered.  Meanwhile 
he  was  very  tender  and  grateful  and  rever¬ 
ential,  not  only  to  her  but  to  all  the  family. 
Now  at  last  —  so  he  used  to  say  —  ‘‘he 
knew  what  it  was  to  have  a  home  and  a 
mother !  What  a  mercy  that  he,  who  had 


16 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


suffered  so  much  in  his  wandering  life,  who 
had  been  so  lonely  and  friendless,  should 
have  anchored  at  last  in  that  peaceful  Chris¬ 
tian  home  ?  ”  That  was  the  way  he  used 
to  talk. 

Meanwhile  Giulia,  the  sensible,  clear¬ 
sighted  Giulia,  whose  heart  was  all  bound 
up  in  her  little  sister,  felt  an  unspeakable 

antipathy  to  L - .  On  the  same  day 

when  Ida’s  second  letter  arrived  at  S.  Mar¬ 
cello,  explaining  to  me  her  circumstances, 
one  came  also  from  Giulia,  giving  her  ver¬ 
sion  of  the  story,  no  way  differing  from 
Ida’s  in  the  facts,  but  even  more  sad  and 
frightened.  “  I  cannot  tell  you,  dear  Signora 
Francesca,”  she  wrote,  “in  what  a  state  of 
continual  agitation  I  pass  my  time  at  pres¬ 
ent,  and  how  unhappy  I  am  about  our  Ida. 
God  grant  that  all  may  go  well !  Mother 
has  gone  to  the  priest  to-day  to  see  what 
they  can  do.”  I  knew  afterwards  that 
Giulia,  finding  all  persuasions  fail  with  her 
sister  (and  indeed  she  had  nothing  then  to 
bring  up  against  L - ,  except  her  instinct¬ 

ive  dread  and  dislike  of  him),  entreated  her 
mother,  even  with  tears,  to  prevent  the 
marriage  by  any  means  whatever.  But  the 
good  Signora  Martina  (who  was  just  as 
pretty,  and  gentle,  and  soft-hearted  as  Ida 
herself)  could  not  bear  the  pale,  wasting 


17 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


face  of  her  younger  daughter,  and  her 
little  hands  that  were  growing  so  thin, 
and  her  sad  voice;  and  she  thought  that 
it  all  came  of  her  love  for  the  captain, 
and  that,  if  she  consented  to  the  secret 
marriage,  Ida  would  grow  bright  and  happy 
again. 

I,  at  that  time,  knew  almost  nothing  about 
such  things,  and  could  not  therefore  advise 
very  strongly  on  one  side  or  the  other.  But 
it  pleased  the  Lord  that  the  worst  should 

not  happen  to  our  Ida.  L - was  called 

away  from  Florence  at  a  few  hours’  notice, 
to  join  his  regiment,  on  the  very  day  before 
the  one  fixed  for  the  marriage .  The  govern¬ 
ment  was  just  then  making  its  preparations 
for  the  taking  of  Rome.  What  she  suffered 
from  this  separation  is  not  to  be  told,  yet  I 
feel  that  it  was  a  providence  to  save  her 
from  far  greater  evil.  When  we  came  back 
to  Florence  in  September  I  found  Ida  quite 
changed  in  appearance,  but  patient  and 
resigned  as  she  always  was  —  willing,  as 
she  said,  to  leave  all  in  the  Lord’s  hand. 

“  Her  L - was  so  good  I  ”  she  used  to 

tell  me :  “  he  had  been  so  kind  to  his 
own  family  1  ”  in  particular  to  his  brother’s 
widow,  who  had  been  left  in  destitution 
with  two  little  children,  and  to  whom  he 
was  continually  sending  money,  though  he 


18 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


had  so  little  to  send.  He  did  not,  however, 
wish  to  have  anything  said  about  this 
woman,  as  he  feared  that  Ida’s  parents 
might  not  so  willingly  consent  to  the  mar¬ 
riage,  if  they  knew  that  he  was  so  burdened. 

L -  always  had  a  great  many  things 

that  he  did  not  wish  anything  said  about. 
Giulia,  however,  had  her  suspicions,  and  I 
had  mine,  about  this  brother’s  widow.  We 
both  spoke  about  them  —  Giulia,  I  rather 
think,  pretty  freely  —  to  Ida.  She  had  reso¬ 
lution  enough,  when  right  and  wrong  were 
concerned;  and  without  saying  anything 
to  Giulia  she  went  to  the  post-office,  and 
inquired  of  the  people  employed  there,  if 
her  lover  were  really  in  the  habit  of  sending 
money  to  Naples,  where  his  sister-in-law 
lived,  and  to  whom.  A  record  is  always 
kept  at  the  post-office  of  all  the  money  that 
comes  and  goes,  so  that  it  was  easy  to  ascer¬ 
tain  the  truth.  And  she  found  that  he  fre¬ 
quently  sent  money  to  a  woman  in  Naples, 
bearing  the  same  family  name  as  himself. 
So  she  and  I  and  Giulia  were  all  quite  satis¬ 
fied.  There  was  a  depth  of  wickedness  that 
we  could  not  imagine,  and  that  even  now  I 
find  it  hard  fully  to  believe,  with  all  the 
proofs  before  me ! 

And  now  the  Italian  troops  were  preparing 
to  march  upon  Rome,  and  we  were  all  fear- 


19 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


ing  a  great  battle  ;  which  really  never  came. 
We  were  all  preparing  lint  and  bandages, 
thinking  that  they  might  be  wanted,  as  on 
former  occasions ;  and  my  mother  gave  out 
work  of  this  sort  to  all  whom  she  could  find 
to  do  it.  Ida,  I  remember,  refused  to  be 
paid  for  any  work  of  this  sort  which  she 
did  for  the  army,  saying,  “  Perhaps  it  may 

go  for  L - ,”  —  and  while  she  sat,  very 

pale  and  quiet,  over  her  lint-making  in  my 
room,  I  drew  that  picture  of  her  which  I 
called  “  La  Fidanzata  del  Capitano,”  which 
I  think  more  like  her  than  any  of  my  other 
pictures,  though  not  half  so  pretty  as  she 
was,  for  all  that. 

And  now  I  am  coming  to  the  darkest  part 
of  my  Ida’s  history — a  time  when  she  suf¬ 
fered  much,  and  which  I  do  not  like  very 
well  to  think  about.  I  said  before  that  I 
did  not  know  much  then  about  civil  mar¬ 
riage.  The  law  had  not  been  in  operation 
more  than  a  little  while.  But  at  the  same 
time,  I  did  not  feel  quite  easy  about  this 
marriage  which  was  to  be  kept  a  secret.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  my  poor  Ida  was  passing 
into  a  perfect  network  of  secrets  and  mys¬ 
tery.  I  knew  that  the  captain  intended  to 
marry  her  when  he  should  come  back  from 
Rome  —  and  that  would  probably  be  very 
soon.  So  I  consulted  a  friend,  who  knew 


20 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


more  about  such  things  than  I  did,  and  she 
told  me  just  what  this  religious  marriage 
was  —  that  is,  as  far  as  its  consequences  for 
this  world  were  concerned,  no  marriage  at 
all.  Then  I  thought  that  I  ought  to  tell 
Ida  what  she  wTas  doing,  —  which  was  not 
very  easy,  for  I  knew’  how’  her  heart  was 
bound  up  in  L - . 

One  day,  up  there  in  my  room,  we  talked 
it  all  over,  and  I  told  her,  as  gently  as  I 
could,  all  that  had  been  told  to  me.  She 
was  much  shocked  and  distressed,  and  shed 
a  great  many  tears,  but  quietly.  What 
affected  her  most  was  the  idea  that  such  a 
marriage  might  bring  misery  on  her  chil¬ 
dren,  if  she  should  ever  have  any.  “  It  must 
be  fearful,”  she  said,  “  for  a  woman  to  feel 
remorse  in  the  presence  of  her  children, — 
to  see  them  in  misery  and  to  think  ‘I brought 
this  trouble  upon  them  !  ’  ”  Then  she  added, 
“  People  have  all  been  very  cruel  not  to 
have  told  me  these  things  before !  I  knew 
that  I  could  not  have  borne  such  a  life.” 
Still,  she  was  not  willing  at  that  time  to 
make  me  a  definite  promise  that  she  would 
not  do  it.  I  was  anxious  that  she  should  do 
so,  as  we  were  about  going  away  for  a 
month’s  visit  to  Padova  and  Bassano.  Dur¬ 
ing  that  month  I  knew  that  L - wTas 

expected  in  Florence,  and  I  feared  his  influ- 


21 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


ence  upon  her.  Ida  was  so  very  gentle, 
and  usually  so  submissive  to  those  about 
her,  that  I  did  not  then  comprehend  the 
true  strength  and  determination  of  her  char¬ 
acter. 

A  day  or  two  afterwards  she  came  to 
say  goodbye  before  I  went.  “  I  had  a  sad 
night,”  she  said,  “  after  our  talk  the  other 
day ;  I  could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of 

L - .  But  you  must  not  think  hardly 

of  him :  he  has  always  meant  well,  but  he 
is  a  passionate,  impulsive  man,  and  does  not 
know  always  how  to  stop  and  think  of  the 
consequences.  You  must  not  be  anxious 
about  me  while  you  are  away.  I  cannot 
make  you  any  promise  just  now,  but  I  have 
quite  resolved  never  to  marry  until  we  can 
be  married  legally,  and  I  hope  that  I  can 
promise  you  this  when  you  come  back.” 
During  the  month  that  we  were  away  I 
heard  no  more  of  Ida,  and  those  to  whom 
I  told  her  story  shook  their  heads,  and 
prophesied  that  the  captain  would  have  it 
all  his  own  way  when  he  should  come  to 
Florence.  I  did  not  think  so,  but  I  kept 
silence,  for  I  had  no  reason  for  my  faith, 
excepting  a  certain  look  in  Ida’s  beautiful 
eyes  when  she  said  those  words  to  me, — 
a  look  humble  and  yet  steadfast,  as  of  one 
strong  in  another’s  strength,  —  a  look  that 


22 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


I  would  give  a  good  deal  if  I  could  put  in 
some  of  my  pictures  of  saints. 

When  at  last  I  did  come  back,  Ida  came 
to  my  room  as  soon  as  she  heard  that  I  was 
there.  She  looked  pale  and  frightened  and 
ill,  and  began  to  talk  almost  before  she  was 
in  the  room,  as  if  she  had  something  that 
she  was  in  a  great  hurry  to  say.  “  I  have 
come  to  make  you  that  promise,  Signora 
Francesca,  which  I  could  not  make  you 
before  you  went  away.  I  promise  you  that 

I  will  never  marry  L - ,  nor  any  one 

else,  excepting  by  a  lawful  marriage.”  “  I 
thought,”  I  said,  “  that  you  had  come  to 
tell  me  this,  and  I  am  very  thankful  to  hear 
it.”  “  And  I  have  been  in  such  a  hurry,” 
she  said,  “for  you  to  come  home,  that  I 
might  say  this  to  you.  I  have  been  afraid 
always  that  my  courage  would  not  hold  out.” 
I  then  asked  her  to  tell  me  exactly  how  it 

had  all  gone.  She  said  that  L - had 

come  back  from  Rome  about  a  week  before, 
fully  prepared  for  the  marriage.  She  had 
not  told  him  of  her  change  of  resolution 
before  his  return  —  she  could  not  make  up 
her  mind  to  write  it  to  him :  but  as  soon  as 
he  came,  and  she  had  a  chance  to  speak  to 
him  alone,  she  told  him  all  that  I  had  told 
her,  saying  that  she  had  consented  at  first 
to  the  religious  marriage  in  ignorance,  but 


23 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


that  she  was  now  convinced  that  it  wTould 
be  wrong.  At  first  he  seems  to  have 
thought,  as  every  one  else  thought,  that 
he  could  make  Ida  do  what  he  pleased ; 
then,  when  he  found  that  she  stood  firm 
against  all  his  persuasions,  he  went  into  a 
passion,  and  terrified  the  poor  girl  beyond 
measure  with  his  violence,  still  without 
shaking  her  resolution.  And  then  he  left 
her  in  anger,  and  went  away  from  Florence 
without  seeing  her  again,  and  she  had  not 
heard  from  him  since.  She  had  been  ill  — 
had  been  three  days  confined  to  her  bed 
—  and  she  looked  half  dead ;  and  I  noticed 
then,  for  the  first  time,  that  peculiar  tone  in 
her  voice  which  it  never  afterwards  lost. 

Still,  she  said  that  she  was  not  sorry  for 
what  she  had  done,  let  it  end  as  it  might. 
It  was  all  in  God’s  hands  now,  and  as  He 
had  ordered  it,  so  it  would  be.  She  had 
been  very  unhappy,  but  she  felt  less  so  now 
that  I  had  come ;  and  it  would  certainly 
have  been  a  great  deal  worse  if  she  had 

married  L -  first,  and  found  out  all 

these  things  afterwards.  I  tried  to  comfort 
her,  though  I  myself  felt  a  good  deal  shocked 
and  surprised  at  the  turn  which  things  had 

taken.  I  told  her  that  if  L -  really 

cared  for  her  he  would  write  to  her  again, 
and  would  be  willing  to  wait  for  the  two 


24 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


years  and  a  half.  “  I  cannot  feel,”  she  said, 
“  as  if  it  could  ever  come  right  now,  but  we 
shall  see.” 

Two  days  afterwards  she  really  did  receive 
a  very  penitent  and  affectionate  letter  from 

L - ,  which  she  brought  to  me ;  but  she 

was  not  very  much  cheered  by  it.  She  still 

loved  L - ,  but  she  no  longer  trusted 

him,  though  she  always  tried  to  excuse  his 
conduct  in  speaking  of  him ;  but  I  do  not 
know  if  there  be  anything  in  the  world  more 
unhappy  than  love  without  trust.  He  had 
been  ordered  to  Sicily,  to  fight  the  brigands, 
and  they  were  not  likely  to  meet  again  for 
many  months.  I  did  not  quite  know  what 
to  make  of  this  letter :  it  was  very  fervent 
in  its  expressions  of  affection,  full  of  desper¬ 
ate  sorrow  for  the  long  and  inevitable  sepa¬ 
ration.  But  there  was  not  a  word  in  it 
about  marriage.  I  noticed  the  same  thing 
in  his  succeeding  letters,  which  for  a  long 
time  she  always  brought  for  me  to  read. 
Some  of  them  were  very  beautiful  letters, 
full  of  interesting  descriptions,  and  of  much 
tender  and  lofty  sentiment.  He  would  speak 
of  her  as  “  the  lamp  that  gave  light  to  his 
life  ” ;  he  sent  many  affectionate  and  rever¬ 
ential  messages  to  “  the  dear  mother  whom 
he  loved  as  his  own  ”  (and  only  to  think  of 
the  trouble  that  he  brought  on  this  dear 


25 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


mother!),  but  he  never  spoke  of  their  mar¬ 
riage,  or  of  their  future  home.  Besides,  his 
letters  were,  to  my  mind,  just  a  little  too 
virtuous,  too  full  of  sensitive  shrinking  from 
other  people’s  sins,  pathetic  lamentations 
about  the  wickedness  of  the  Sicilians,  and 
paternal  advice  to  Ida,  who  was  so  much 
better  than  he  was  !  That  style  may  do  very 
well  for  a  clergyman,  but  I  rather  distrust  it 
in  a  military  man.  However,  I  supposed 
that  all  would  end  well,  and  that  there  was 
probably  some  reason,  more  than  I  knew, 

for  whatever  seemed  strange  in  L - ’s 

conduct.  I  tried  to  keep  up  Ida’s  courage 
—  more,  I  think  now,  than  I  should  have 
done  —  but  she  was  gradually  coming  to 

talk  less  about  L - ;  less,  indeed,  about 

anything.  She  liked  better  than  anything 
else  to  sit  and  read  when  she  came  to  my 
room.  She  took  her  choice  always  of  my 
books,  generally  choosing  poetry  —  religious 
poetry  rather  than  anything  else ;  and  she 
used  to  read  aloud  to  me  with  great  sim¬ 
plicity  of  manner  (for  she  had  never  been 
taught  declamation),  but  with  a  certain  tone 
in  her  voice  which  invariably  put  me  into 
tears,  so  that  I  sometimes  had  to  stop  her 
reading,  as  it  made  me  unable  to  go  on  with 
my  work.  The  room  which  had  been  occu¬ 
pied  by  L - when  he  lived  in  Florence 


26 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


had  now  been  taken  by  a  married  couple ; 
the  husband  was  an  officer,  and  his  wife 
married  to  him  only  by  a  religious  marriage. 
This  poor  woman  was  very  unhappy,  and 
she  confided  her  troubles  to  Ida,  who  often 
spoke  to  me  about  her.  Once  she  said  to 
me  that  I  had  done  a  great  deal  for  her  in 
many  ways  (this  was  only  a  fancy  of  hers, 
arising  out  of  her  strong  affection  for  me), 
but  never  so  much  as  when  I  had  prevented 
the  religious  marriage;  that  she  should  have 
died  if  she  had  found  herself  in  the  condition 
of  her  poor  neighbour.  It  was  a  comfort  to 
me  that  she  said  so,  as  I  had  begun  to  feel 
almost  sorry  for  the  part  which  I  had  taken, 
seeing  how  she  was  pining,  and  to  wish  that 
I  had  not  interfered  about  this  marriage, 
which,  after  all,  however  dangerous,  would 
not  have  been  regarded  by  the  Church  as 
sinful.  But  I  knew  now  that  I  did  right  in 
that  matter.  She  gradually  stopped  bring¬ 
ing  L - ’s  letters  for  me  to  read ;  and 

when  I  spoke  of  him,  she  used  to  tell  me 
that  the  feeling  was  strong  in  her  mind  that 

she  should  never  be  L - ’s  wife,  and 

that  she  tried  not  to  think  too  much  about 
it,  nor  to  set  her  heart  upon  it,  but  to  keep 
herself  “  ready  for  the  Lord’s  will,  whatever 
it  might  be.” 

One  day  she  found  a  New  Testament  in  my 


27 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


room,*  the  first  which  she  had  ever  seen; 
and  after  that  she  never  cared  so  much  for 
any  other  book,  but  would  sit  and  read  chap¬ 
ter  after  chapter  with  never-failing  delight, 
only  interrupting  herself  now  and  then  to 
say,  “  How  beautiful !  ”  When  Giulia  had 
a  holiday  she  used  to  come  also,  and  she 
was  as  much  pleased  with  the  Testament  as 
her  sister.  The  two  girls  would  sit  by  me 
while  I  painted,  by  the  hour  together,  and 
one  would  read  till  her  voice  was  tired,  and 
then  hand  the  book  to  her  sister ;  and  so 
they  would  go  on  taking  turns  until  they 
would  read  often  more  than  twenty  chapters 
at  once.  When  I  found  they  did  not  grow 
tired  of  it,  I  gave  them  a  Testament  to  keep 
for  themselves,  and  such  was  their  excite¬ 
ment  that  they  sat  up  reading  it  nearly  all 
the  first  night  after  they  had  it. 

Meanwhile,  poor  Ida  had  continued  to 
grow  thin  and  pale,  and  did  not  eat  enough 
for  a  sparrow.  We  took  her  to  our  good 
English  doctor,  but  he  was  not  able  to  do 
much  for  her,  and  indeed  could  not  tell  what 
was  the  matter  with  her.  He  thought  that 
the  room  where  she  slept  was  unhealthy,  as 
there  was  no  window  in  it.  The  family, 
being  poor,  were  obliged  to  let  all  their  good 


i  Italics  mine.  —  J.  R. 


28 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


rooms,  and  to  occupy  all  the  dark  and 
inconvenient  ones  themselves ;  so  that  Ida 
and  Giulia  and  their  little  niece  Luisa  slept 
all  together  in  what  wras  really  nothing  more 
than  a  dark  closet.  He  thought  also  that 
she  had  injured  herself  by  drawing  -water 
for  her  mother,  who  took  in  washing.  So 
Giulia,  out  of  her  small  earnings,  hired  a 
•woman  to  come  every  day  and  draw  the 
water,  and  the  poet  received  notice  to  leave 
his  room  at  the  beginning  of  the  next  month. 
This  was  the  less  loss,  as  he  had  not  paid 
his  rent  for  some  time,  and  the  family  were 
also  frequently  obliged  to  give  him  his  din¬ 
ner,  because,  as  Ida  told  me,  “  they  could 
not  eat  their  own  meal  in  comfort  while 
there  was  a  man  in  the  house  with  nothing 
to  eat.”  He  said,  when  told  that  he  must 
leave,  as  Ida  was  ill  and  needed  the  room, 
that,  being  for  that  reason ,  he  could  not 
refuse ;  and  when  the  time  came  he  walked 
away  majestically,  with  a  bundle  of  manu¬ 
script  and  a  pair  of  old  shoes,  which  appeared 
to  constitute  his  whole  property.  And  now, 
as  I  shall  never  say  anything  more  about  the 
poet,  I  will  add  to  his  credit,  that  he  after¬ 
wards  came  back,  to  everybody’s  astonish¬ 
ment,  and  paid  up  all  his  debts,  having 
obtained  employment,  I  believe,  to  write  for 
a  republican  newspaper. 

29 


f 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


So  that  year  finished  and  another  came ; 
and  Ida  had  a  little  cough,  but  no  one 
thought  much  of  it.  We  went  away  again 
into  the  country  for  two  months,  and  during 
that  time  the  sisters  wrote  to  me  twice,  and 
Ida’s  letters  were  happy  and  affectionate, 
and  she  seemed  to  enjoy  her  new  room 
(which  was  the  very  one  that  looked  away 
into  the  country),  and  she  spoke  again  of 
L - ,  as  I  thought,  more  hopefully. 

We  went  back  to  Florence  about  the  first 
of  September,  and  I  found  Ida  still  ailing, 
but  with  nothing  particular  the  matter  with 
her.  She  was  studying  for  an  examination 
so  that  she  might  also  be  a  teacher,  and  she 

said  that  L - wished  it.  He  had  now 

(I  believe)  only  a  year  and  a  little  more  left 
to  serve  in  the  army,  and  during  that  time 
he  expected  to  come  to  Florence  for  a  visit. 
I  told  her  that  the  time  would  pass  soon, 
and  that  the  long  waiting  -was  nearly  over, 

and  she  and  L - would  be  happy  now 

before  very  long.  To  this  she  only  answered 
—  “  As  God  has  destined  it}  so  will  it  be.”  I 
thought  sometimes  that  she  had  become 
indifferent  to  her  lover,  or  else  that  she  was 
frightened  about  her  own  health,  and  did 
not  expect  to  recover.  I  did  not  like  to 
have  her  study  so  much,  as  I  was  sure  it 
hurt  her;  but  about  that  it  was  of  no  use 


30 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


for  me  to  talk.  L - ’s  will  was  law  to 

her,  if  only  it  did  not  interfere  with  her  own 
conscience. 

Her  cough  had  increased,  and  she  could 
not  read  to  me  very  often.  Then  one  night 
she  was  taken  ill  with  insupportable  pains 
in  her  shoulders,  which  lasted  for  several 
hours,  and  then  left  her  as  weak  as  a  baby. 
That  was  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

Poor  Giulia  suffered  more,  I  think,  than 
her  sister.  She  was  now  herself  engaged  to 
be  married,  and  should  naturally  have  been 
saving  a  little  money  for  her  wedding  outfit. 
But  of  this  she  thought  nothing;  there  was 
no  room  in  her  heart  now  for  anything  but 
Ida.  All  that  she  could  save  she  spent  daily 
in  an  attempt,  nearly  vain,  to  buy  something 
that  her  sister  could  eat,  and  then  she  would 
come  to  my  room,  crying  bitterly,  to  tell  me 
of  her  failures  and  of  Ida’s  constantly  pro¬ 
gressing  illness.  But  Ida  continued  to  come 
to  my  room  all  that  winter  and  spring,  and 
the  change  in  her  for  the  worse  was  so  very 
gradual  that  I  was  not  much  frightened 
about  her.  She  seemed  cheerful  and  inter¬ 
ested  in  everything  about  her,  as  indeed  she 
always  had  been.  She  was  more  beautiful 
than  ever,  and  might  have  turned  the  heads 
of  half  the  men  in  Florence  if  she  had  been 
so  disposed,  for  as  a  general  rule  all  those 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


who  saw  her  fell  more  or  less  in  love  with 
her.  But  Ida,  kind  and  friendly  in  her  man¬ 
ners  with  all  those  who  treated  her  respect¬ 
fully  and  kept  their  distance,  would  shrink 
into  herself,  and  become  quite  unapproach¬ 
able  at  the  least  shadow  of  a  compliment ; 
so  that  I  do  not  think,  after  all,  that  any  of 
her  numerous  admirers  ever  went  so  far  as 
to  make  themselves  very  unhappy  about 
her,  seeing  from  the  first  that  she  was  out 
of  their  reach. 

All  the  poor  people  used  to  call  her  “  Sig¬ 
nora ,”  now  that  she  was  grown  up,  though  her 
condition  was  no  higher  than  their  own .  I 
a?n  sure  that  it  was  not  that  she  was  better 
dressed  than  themselves  ( excepting  in  the  one 
matter  of  neatness ),  still  less  that  she  gave 
herself  any  airs  of  superiority,  for  she  was 
humble  almost  to  a  fault,  willing  to  act  as 
servant  to  the  lowest  amongst  them  if  she  could 
be  of  any  use,'  ready  on  all  occasions  to  take 
the  lowest  place.  But  there  was  a  certain 
peculiar  refinement  and  unconscious  lofti¬ 
ness  about  her  which  we  all  felt,  and  which 
raised  her  above  other  people. 

And  the  summer  came  again,  and  this  time 
we  had  to  go  away  earlier  than  in  other 
years  because  we  had  a  friend  very  ill  in 


0" 


i  Italics  all  mine.  —  J.  R. 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


Venice,  who  wished  us  to  come  to  him.  Ida 
came  to  take  leave  of  me  as  I  was  preparing 
to  leave  my  painting  room,  and  she  seemed 
more  sorry  to  have  me  go  than  she  had  ever 
been  before.  She  loved  dearly  that  room 
where  we  had  first  met,  and  where  we  had 
spent  so  many  hours  together,  some  sad  and 
some  happy:  it  had  always  been  one  of  her 
principal  cares  to  put  it  in  order  when  she 
came  to  me,  and  to  bring  flowers  for  it,  and 
to  make  it  look  as  pleasant  and  pretty  as  she 
could.  And  on  that  day  she  walked  around 
it  slowly,  stopping  often  that  she  might  look 
long  on  each  one  of  the  objects  grown,  in 
the  course  of  time,  to  be  like  familiar  friends. 
And  then  she  came  up  to  me  and  kissed  me, 
and  I  saw  that  her  eyes  were  overflowing 
with  tears.  I  wonder  if  the  thought  was  in 
her  mind  that  she  should  never  see  the 
place  again. 


33 


PART  II.i 


What  I  am  going  to  write  now  was  not 
known  to  me  until  very  lately  —  at 
least,  the  greater  part  of  it  was  not.  Before 
I  left  Florence,  however,  I  had  begun  to  feel 
pretty  sure  that  Ida’s  mysterious  illness  came 

of  her  grief  for  L - .  One  day  I  said  to 

her,  “  Ida,  tell  me  if  I  have  guessed  rightly  : 

you  have  suffered  more  about  L - than 

you  have  been  willing  to  tell.”  And  she 
answered,  “  If  I  have,  I  have  never  troubled 
any  one  else  about  it.” 

A  few  days  after  I  left  her,  L - made 

his  long  promised  visit  to  Florence.  He 
seemed  troubled  at  the  change  in  Ida,  and 
met  her  at  first  very  kindly.  He  saw  her, 
however,  only  once,  and  then  left  her,  saying 
that  he  would  come  again  the  next  day. 

The  next  day,  however,  instead  of  L - 

himself,  came  a  letter  from  him  saying  that 
he  had  been  obliged  to  leave  Florence  in 
haste,  and  that  he  had  not  felt  able  to 
support  the  sorrow  of  taking  leave  of  Ida. 
They  never  met  again. 

Ida  was  much  grieved  at  his  leaving  her 
so  abruptly.  Giulia  was  more  than  grieved, 

i  Thus  divided  by  the  writer  —  the  evening  from  the 
morning.  They  are  but  one  day.  —  J.  R. 


34 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


—  she  was  suspicious  of  something  worse 
than  appeared.  Now,  there  lived  in  Florence 

a  cousin  of  L - ’s,  a  married  lady,  with 

whom  the  two  girls  were  hardly  acquainted. 
To  her  Giulia  went  in  her  trouble,  and  told 

her  all  about  Ida,  and  how  strangely  L - 

had  behaved  towards  her;  and  she  asked 
her  to  tell  her  the  truth,  if  she  knew  it, 
whether  he  really  intended  to  marry  her 
when  he  should  leave  the  army.  The  lady 
appeared  troubled,  and  answered  her  very 

sadly,  “You  must  know  that  L - is  in 

a  very  difficult  position ;  he  has  grave  duties 
to  perform.”  “  What  duties  ?  ”  asked  Giulia, 
who  could  not  imagine  that  any  duty  could 
be  greater  than  his  duty  to  her  sister.  And 
the  lady  answered,  yet  more  sadly  than 
before,  that  he  was  the  father  of  two  chil¬ 
dren.  The  horror  of  the  innocent  open- 
hearted  Giulia  is  more  easily  imagined  than 
described.  Trembling,  she  asked  of  the 
children’s  mother,  and  learned  that  she  was 
another  victim,  even  more  unfortunate  than 

Ida.  L - had  married  her  by  a  religious 

marriage,^  promising  to  marry  her  legally 
when  he  should  leave  the  army.  She  was  a 
Neapolitan,  the  very  same  widowed  sister- 

i  I  do  not  understand  how  the  Catholic  priesthood 
permits  itself  to  be  made  an  instrument  of  this  wicked¬ 
ness. —  J.  R. 


35 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


in-law  to  whom  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
sending  money.  So  all  was  explained. 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  tell  everything  to 
her  sister ;  but  Ida  was  very  weak  just  then, 
and  she  almost  feared  that  such  a  shock 
would  be  fatal  to  her.  The  same  considera¬ 
tion  prevented  her  telling  either  of  her  par¬ 
ents,  as  she  feared  that  they  would  be  unable 
to  contain  their  indignation.  Then  she 
thought  that  perhaps  Ida  was  going  to  die, 
and  in  that  case  perhaps  it  would  be  better 
that  she  should  never  know  on  what  a  worth¬ 
less  object  she  had  set  her  heart.  But  she 
did  what  was  most  natural  to  such  an  open, 
straightforward  girl  as  Giulia.  She  wrote  to 

L - himself,  and  let  him  know  that  she 

had  discovered  all.  She  also  told  him  that 
Ida  was  growing  always  worse,  and  that  she 
should  not  tell  her  anything  about  it  while 
she  was  so  ill ;  and  she  entreated  him  not  to 
let  her  suspect  anything  until  she  should 
have  recovered. 

Now,  I  cannot  imagine  what  was  the  cap¬ 
tain’s  motive  for  what  he  did — whether  he 
did  not  believe  Giulia’s  promise  of  silence, 
or  whether  he  was  tired  of  Ida  and  wished 
to  rid  himself  of  her.  However  it  may  have 
been,  he  did  what  was  sufficiently  cruel :  he 
wrote  Ida  a  letter,  and  told  her  the  whole. 
Ida  never  showed  that  letter  to  any  one,  so 

36 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


I  only  know  what  she  told  Giulia,  who  told 
me.  He  told  her  that  he  was  not  legally 
bound  to  his  Neapolitan  wife,  and  that  he 
meant  to  separate  from  her  and  to  marry 
Ida,  but  that  it  might  be  some  little  time 
before  he  could  complete  the  necessary 
arrangements. 

From  the  day  that  this  letter  arrived  all 
hope  was  over  for  Ida,  so  far  as  this  world 
was  concerned.  She  broke  a  blood-vessel 
the  same  day,  and  was  never  the  same 

again.  She  wrote  immediately  to  L - , 

without  reproach  or  resentment,  and  told 
him  that  there  w?as  only  one  thing  for  him 
to  do :  to  marry  the  poor  woman  whom  he 
had  deceived,  and  to  give  a  name  to  his 
children. 

Meanwhile  she  told  no  one,  not  even  her 
sister.  In  the  utter  uits elfishness  of  her  affec¬ 
tion  for  L - ,  she  seems  almost  to  have 

forgotten  her  own  trouble ,  and  to  have  thought 
only  of  saving  him  from  all  appearance  of 
blame.1  And  so,  for  a  long  time,  those  two 
young  girls  lived  on  together,  each  one  bear¬ 
ing  her  own  burden  in  silence.  Ida’s  hold 
on  this  world  had  never  been  very  strong, 
and  it  had  quite  given  way  now.  Her  life 
was  going  fast  away  from  her. 


i  Italics  mine. —  J.  R. 


37 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


Meanwhile,  L - seems  to  have  felt 

his  old  affection  for  her,  such  as  it  was, 
revive,  at  the  idea  of  losing  her  altogether ; 
and  he  continued  to  write  her  passionate 
and  imploring  letters.  Her  answers  were 
very  gentle  and  patient,  written  so  as  to 
spare  his  feelings  as  much  as  possible,  but 
they  were  very  decided.  She  could  never 
belong  to  him  now  —  he  must  not  think  of 
that  any  more  —  but  she  entreated  him  to 
make  what  reparation  he  could  to  the  poor 
Neapolitan,  and  to  give  her  the  happiness, 
before  they  parted,  of  knowing  that  he  had 
done  right. 

And  poor  Giulia  was  at  her  wits’  end, 
seeing  her  sister  grow  so  rapidly  worse,  and 
not  knowing  the  reason.  She  wrote  to  me 
at  Venice,  begging  that  I  would  use  my 
influence  to  have  her  sister  admitted  to  the 
Marine  Hospital  at  Viareggio,  that  she  might 
have  a  month’s  sea  bathing,  which  some 
thought  would  be  good  for  her.  As  soon 
as  Ida  heard  that  I  was  interesting  myself 
about  this,  she  also  wrote  me  a  few  lines  — 
the  last  which  I  ever  received  from  her. 
She  thanked  me  most  affectionately,  but  did 
not  wish  me  to  do  anything  more  about  it, 
or  to  spend  any  money:  if  it  was  the  Lord’s 
will  that  she  should  recover,  then  she  should 
recover.  And  then,  for  the  last  time,  came 


38 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


the  old  signature,  in  a  very  tremulous  hand 
now — “  La  sua  Ida,  che  li  vuol  tanto  bene.” 

However,  I  still  worked  to  have  her 
admitted,  and  she  was  admitted.  Poor  girl ! 
I  did  not  understand  then,  as  I  do  now,  the 
meaning  of  her  letter.  I  thought  that  she 
wished  only  to  save  me  trouble;  but  I  know 
now  that  she  wrote  me  because  she  felt  that 
her  malady  was  such  a  one  as  no  doctors 
can  cure.  It  was  about  that  time  that  Giulia 
discovered,  by  some  means,  that  her  sister 
knew  the  secret  which  she  had  been  keeping 
from  her  so  carefully.  I  think  they  were 
both  a  little  happier,  or  at  least  a  little  less 
miserable,  when  they  were  able  to  speak 
freely  to  each  other  of  what  was  weighing 
so  heavily  on  both  their  minds.  About  that 

time  also  L -  left  the  army,  having 

obtained  his  dismission  a  little  sooner  than 
was  expected.  So  Ida  went  to  the  Marine 
Hospital  for  a  month,  and  won  the  hearts 
of  the  sisters  of  charity  by  her  beauty,  her 
patience,  and  her  self-forgetfulness.  She 
always  waited  on  herself,  being  careful  to 
give  no  one  trouble;  and  when  the  doctor 
ordered  her  to  use  some  particular  herb 
which  grew  wild  at  Viareggio,  she  went  out 
every  morning  to  search  for  it ,  gathered ,  and 
prepared  it  herself.  She  was  very  kind  and 
attentive  also  to  the  poor  sick  children,  who, 


39 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


V 


as  usual,  made  up  nearly  all  the  inmates  of 
the  hospital. 

I  am  afraid  that  the  letters  which  I  wrote 
her  at  this  time  must  have  given  her  much 
pain ;  for  I  thought  that  she  would  recover, 
and  marry  L - ,  who  was  now,  as  I  sup¬ 

posed,  free ;  and  I  used  to  write  to  her  about 
it,  meaning  to  encourage  her.  She  never 
answered  my  letters,  but  she  sent  one  of 
them  to  Giulia,  and  wrote  to  her  —  “The 
Signora  Francesca  deceives  herself  always; 
it  is  better  so.” 

L - ,  finding  that  his  professions  of 

love  would  not  soften  Ida,  next  tried  to 
work  on  her  compassion.  He  wrote  to  her 
that  there  was  great  delay  about  paying  his 
pension,  and  that  his  children  were  starving  I 

She  sent  him  twenty  francs  for  his  chil¬ 
dren  in  a  letter :  she  did  not  have  the  money 
with  her,  and  she  was  obliged  to  write  to 
her  sister  Giulia  to  lend  it  to  her,  saying 
that  she  could  not  bear  the  thought  that 

L - ’s  children  should  suffer.  After  she 

went  back  to  Florence  she  wished  to  pay 
this  money,  but  Giulia  would  never  take  it 
from  her ;  which  I  suppose  was  one  reason 
why  she  left  Giulia  what  she  did  at  the  time 
of  her  death,  rather  more  than  four  months 
afterwards. 

Having  gone  back  to  Florence  much  worse 


40 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


than  she  had  left  it,  she  finally  obtained  the 

much-wished-for  promise  from  L - ,  who 

agreed  to  marry  his  wife  legally,  and  to 
make  what  reparation  he  could  to  his  unfor¬ 
tunate  children.  Up  to  this  time  Ida  had 
not  been  willing  to  follow  the  urgent  advice 
of  Giulia,  and  break  off  all  communication 

with  L - .  As  I  did  not  know  these 

facts  until  after  her  death,  of  course  it  is 
not  possible  for  me  to  say  what  her  reasons 
were ;  but  I  imagine,  from  what  I  know  of 
Ida’s  character  and  of  all  her  conduct  in 
this  matter,  that  it  was  her  wish  that  this 
love  which  had  cost  her  her  life  should  not 
be  altogether  wasted,  and  that  it  was  a  com¬ 
fort  to  her,  in  resigning  all  her  own  hopes  of 
happiness,  to  think  that  she  might  save 

L -  from  sin,  and  his  family  from 

misery. 

Giulia  had  wished  her  to  let  me  know  all 
these  particulars,  saying,  “  The  Signora  Fran¬ 
cesca  would  tell  us  what  we  ought  to  do.” 
To  which  Ida  replied,  “  I  know  what  I  ought 
to  do ,  and  I  will  do  it 1 ;  the  Signora  loves 
me,  and  would  be  unhappy  if  she  knew  of 
my  troubles.”  But  now  she  agreed  to  her 
sister’s  wish,  and  wrote  a  kind  letter  taking 

leave  of  L - ,  and  asking  him  not  to 

answer  it,  nor  to  write  to  her  again.  She 

i  Italics  Francesca’s,  and  mine  also.  —  J.  R. 


41 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


told  him,  that  he  must  not  think  that  she 
had  any  hard  feeling  against  him  because 
she  made  this  request,  but  she  thought  that 
it  would  be  more  for  the  happiness  of  both 
of  them,  that  they  should  cease  all  commu¬ 
nication  with  each  other. 

The  effort  of  writing  this  letter  was  so 
great,  that  at  first  it  nearly  killed  her,  and 
she  became  suddenly  so  much  worse,  that 
Giulia  wished  it  had  never  been  written. 
However,  after  a  few  days,  that  singular 
peacefulness  began  to  come  over  her,  which 
afterwards  remained  until  she  died;  and  she 
told  Giulia  that  she  felt  more  tranquil  than 

for  a  great  while  before,  and  that  if  L - 

should  write  her  another  letter  she  would 
not  even  look  at  it,  but  would  give  it  to  her 
sister  to  read  and  answer,  that  she  might 
keep  all  these  past  troubles  out  of  her  mind. 

I  have  done  now  with  all  the  worldly  part 
of  my  Ida’s  story  :  what  remains  will  be  only 
the  account  of  her  most  wonderful  and  glo¬ 
rious  passage  into  the  other  world,  and  of 
the  singular  and  almost  visible  help  which  it 
pleased  the  Lord  to  give  her  in  her  long 
illness.  So,  before  going  any  farther,  I  will 
just  tell  what  little  more  I  know  about 

L - .  He  never  wrote  to  her  again,  but 

he  continued  to  send  occasionally  to  the 
house  for  news  of  her,  almost  until  the  time 

42 


» 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


of  her  death.  I  have  never  been  able  to 
discover  whether  he  ever  kept  his  promise 
and  married  his  wife  legally,  but  I  hope  that 
he  did  so.1  She  appears  from  what  I  have 
heard  of  her,  to  have  been  by  no  means  a 
very  amiable  character ;  but  then  there  are 
few  tempers  so  sweet  as  not  to  be  soured  by 
such  trouble  as  hers. 

So  October  came,  and  once  again  I  found 
myself  in  Florence ;  where  almost  my  first 
visit  was  to  Ida’s  room.  My  first  thought 
on  seeing  her  was  that  she  looked  better 
than  when  I  had  left  her.  She  sat  in  an 
easy  chair  by  the  open  window,  —  that  win¬ 
dow  that  looked  away  over  the  roofs  into 
the  open  country;  and  she  had  her  sewing 
as  usual,  for  she  always  worked  until  she 
became  so  feeble  as  to  make  it  actually 
impossible.  I  remember  her,  and  everything 
about  her,  as  if  the  scene  were  still  before 
me.  She  was  dressed  in  a  sort  of  gray  loose 
gown  put  on  over  her  white  night-dress, 
which  gave  her  something  of  a  monastic 
look,  and  her  chair  was  covered  with  a 
chintz  of  a  flowered  pattern ;  her  work- 
basket  stood  in  a  chair  at  her  knee,  and  by 
her  side  was  a  little  old  table,  with  a  few 
books  on  it,  much  •worn.  She  was  very 
white  certainly,  but  it  was  a  clear  luminous 

i  He  did.  —  J.  R. 


43 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


white  that  was  extremely  beautiful,  and  her 
lips  still  retained  their  bloom,  which  indeed 
they  never  lost.  Her  soft  hair  was  partly 
dishevelled,  for  she  had  just  been  lying 
down ;  but  it  was  such  hair  as  never  could 
look  rough,  and  as  it  fell  loosely  about  her 
face  and  neck,  it  so  concealed  their  wasting 
that  she  appeared  almost  like  one  in  health. 
Her  eyes  were  larger  and  brighter  than  ever 
—  all  full  of  light,  it  seemed  to  me  —  and 
her  face  had  lost  that  worn,  patient  look, 
which  it  had  borne  so  long,  and  appeared 
all  illuminated  with  happiness. 

But  if  the  first  sight  of  her  gave  me  hope, 
as  soon  as  she  began  to  speak  the  hope  was 
gone.  Her  voice  had  grown  very  feeble,  and 
nearly  every  sentence  ended  in  a  cough,  so 
violent  that  it  seemed  as  if  it  would  carry 
her  away  in  a  minute.  She  was  quite  over¬ 
come  with  joy  and  thankfulness  at  seeing 
me  again,  and  it  was  difficult  to  keep  her 
from  talking  more  than  was  prudent.  “  Oh, 
Signora  Francesca,  how  I  have  wanted  you 
to  come  I  ”  she  kept  saying,  and  her  little 
feverish  half-transparent  hands  closed  very 
tightly  about  mine,  and  her  beautiful  eyes 
looked  into  my  face  as  if  they  could  never 
see  enough  of  me.  Meanwhile  Giulia  sat 
watching  us  with  a  flushed,  anxious  face, 
and  blue  eyes  that  kept  filling  wfith  tears. 


44 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


No  doubt  about  which  of  the  sisters  suffered 
the  most,  now! 

As  for  me,  I  tried  not  to  look  troubled, 
and  to  remember  all  that  I  could  about  Ven¬ 
ice,  and  what  I  had  seen  on  my  journey,  to 
tell  Ida ;  and  I  sang  her  some  of  the  old 
tunes  that  she  had  been  so  fond  of,  and  read 
her  a  little  in  the  Testament,  and  she  was 
very  happy,  and  we  made  it  as  much  like 
old  times  as  we  could.  After  that  I  always 
went  to  Ida,  at  first  two  or  three  times  a 
week,  and  afterwards  every  day,  as  long  as 
she  lived.  She  could  not  talk  to  me  a  great 
deal,  but  the  few  words  that  she  said  were 
full  of  comfort. 

Every  day  I  used  to  read  the  Bible  to  her. 
She  asked  me  to  read  always  that,  and  no 
other  book,  and  sing  her  some  little  hymn. 
I  never  knew  any  other  person  so  perfectly 
peaceful  and  happy  as  she  was  then ,  and  for 
the  remaining  time ,  nearly  four  months ,  that 
I  had  the  privilege  of  being  near  her.  She 
seemed  to  me  almost  in  heaven  already, 
living  in  the  sensible  presence  of  our  Lord, 
and  in  the  enjoyment  of  heavenly  things,  as 
I  have  never  known  any  one  else  do,  for  so 
long  a  lime  *  The  almost  supernatural  hap- 

i  The  Italics  after  these  are  Francesca’s.  I  have 
marked  the  sentences  here  for  after  reference  in  ‘  Our 
Fathers.’  — J.  R. 


45 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


piness  which  she  enjoyed —  (indeed,  if  I  -were 
to  write  just  as  I  feel  and  believe,  I  should 
leave  out  the  almost,)  had  nothing  of  the 
convulsionary  about  it :  it  was  quiet  and 
continuous  —  just  the  same  when  she  was 
better,  and  when  she  was  worse,  through 
the  nights  that  she  could  not  sleep  for 
coughing,  and  the  days  that  found  her 
always  a  little  weaker :  and  it  left  her  mind 
free  to  think  of  others,  and  to  invent  many 
ways  of  saving  trouble  to  her  mother  and 
Giulia,  and  to  find  little  odds  and  ends  of 
w-ork  that  she  was  still  able  to  do. 

Her  poor  mother  still  clung  to  hope,  and 
was  always  trying  to  make  out  that  Ida  was 
better,  or  at  least  that  she  was  going  to  be 
better  as  soon  as  the  weather  changed,  or 
when  she  had  taken  some  new  medicine. 
When  she  talked  in  this  way  it  used  to  make 
Ida  a  little  sad;  still  she  seldom  said  any¬ 
thing  directly  to  discourage  her  mother,  but 
only  would  say,  “  It  wTill  be  as  the  Lord 
pleases  :  He  knows  what  He  does  :  perhaps 
He  sees  that  if  Hived  I  should  do  something 
wicked.”  One  day,  as  we  sat  about  her  bed, 
where  she  soon  began  to  spend  most  of  her 
time,  and  her  mother  and  Giulia  were  talking 
about  her  recovery,  she  said,  “  Perhaps  it 
would  be  better  that  I  should  not  recover : 
I  can  never  be  well,  really :  but  still,  let  it 


46 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


be  as  the  Lord  will.”  “  Have  courage,  Ida,” 
said  Giulia ;  and  her  mother,  “  Do  not  be 
afraid,  my  child.”  “  I  am  not  afraid,”  she 
answered.  “  I  think,”  I  said,  “  that  God 
gives  you  courage  always.”  “  Yes,  yes,”  she 
answered,  with  a  very  bright  smile  :  “  blessed 
are  His  words  !  ”  —  and  the  poor  mother 
went  out  of  the  room.  Then  Ida  looked 
earnestly  into  my  face  and  said,  “  There  are 
tears  in  your  eyes,  but  there  are  none  in 
mine.”  I  asked  her  if  she  wished  to  die. 
She  thought  a  little  while,  and  then  said 
that  she  had  no  choice  in  the  matter ;  if  it 
were  the  Lord’s  will  that  she  should  die 
soon,  she  was  very  happy  to  go  ;  or  if  He 
wished  her  to  recover,  she  should  be  happy 
just  the  same;  and  if,  instead,  it  pleased 
Him  that  she  should  live  a  long  time  as  ill 
as  she  was  then,  still  she  wished  nothing 
different.  And  she  ended  with  a  very  con¬ 
tented  smile,  saying  the  words  which  she 
had  said  so  often  —  “  He  knows  what  He 
does.” 

Another  time,  when  I  feared  that  she 
suffered  with  her  constant  and  wearisome 
cough,  she  said,  “  It  does  not  seem  to  me 
that  I  suffer  at  all ;  I  am  so  happy  that  I 
hardly  ever  remember  that  I  am  ill.”  Her 
spirit  never  failed  for  a  moment ;  there  were 
none  of  those  seasons  of  depression  which 


47 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


almost  always  come  with  a  long  illness. 
When  others  asked  her  how  she  was  able  to 
have  so  much  patience,  she  always  answered 
simply,  “  God  gives  it  to  me.”  A  few  words 
like  these  I  can  remember,  but  not  many, 
and  they  were  nearly  all  in  answer  to  our 
questions.  She  never  spoke  much  about 
her  own  feelings,  physical  or  mental,  and  it 
was  more  in  the  wonderful  lighting  up  of 
her  face,  when  she  listened  to  the  Bible,  than 
in  what  she  said,  that  I  saw  how  much  she 
enjoyed. 

> 

All  her  taste  for  “pretty  things”  contin¬ 
ued,  and  she  liked  to  have  everything  about 
her  as  bright  and  cheerful  as  possible.  She 
had  a  friend  who  used  to  send  her,  by  my 
means,  beautiful  flowers  almost  every  day, 
which  were  a  great  comfort  to  her,  and  it 
was  always  my  work  to  arrange  them  on  the 
little  table  by  her  bedside.  When  she  was 
too  tired  and  weak  for  her  sewing,  or  her 
books  of  devotion,  she  used  to  lie  and  look 
at  these  flowers.  Edwige  (whom  every  one 
knows,  who  knows  me,  and  of  whom  it  is 
enough  to  say  that  she  is  a  good  and  pious 
widow  who  lives  in  the  country,  and  who 
was  very  fond  of  Ida)  used  to  bring  down 
continually  such  things  as  she  liked  from 
the  country, — long  streamers  of  ivy,  and 
branches  of  winter  roses  and  laurustinus, 


48 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


and  black  and  orange-coloured  berries  from 
the  hedges, — and  these  were  a  continual 
amusement  to  her.  As  long  as  she  was 
strong  enough,  she  used  to  like  to  arrange 
them  herself  with  the  same  fanciful  taste 
which  she  had  always  shown  in  my  painting 
room,  ornamenting  with  them  her  crucifix, 
which  hung  near  the  head  of  the  bed,  and 
her  Madonna,  and  one  or  two  other  devo¬ 
tional  pictures  ;  and  what  were  left  she  used 
to  twine  about  the  frame-work  of  her  bed 
itself,  so  that  sometimes  she  looked  quite  as 
if  she  were  in  an  arbour.  I  think  she  obeyed 
literally  the  gospel  precept,  to  be  “  like  men 
waiting  for  their  Lord.”  The  poor  little 
room  and  its  dying  inmate  presented  always 
a  strangely  festive  appearance,  as  if  they 
were  prepared  for  the  soon  expected  arrival 
of  one  greatly  loved  and  longed  for. 

The  window  was  always  opened  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed, — for  light  and  air  she  would 
have,  and  her  dress  and  the  linen  of  her  bed 
were  always  as  neat  and  clean  as  possible, 
to  the  credit  of  her  mother  be  it  spoken, 
who  did  the  washing  herself,  with  the  help 
of  her  good  little  servant-maid  Filomena. 
And  the  pretty  flowers  and  green  branches, 
and  the  fresh  smell  of  the  country  which 
came  from  them,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  all, 
Ida’s  wonderfully  happy  face,  made  up  as 


49 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


bright  and  inspiriting  a  scene  as  I  ever  came 
near.  I  know  that  I  used  to  think  it  better 
than  going  to  church,  to  go  into  Ida’s  room. 

There  was  a  good  American  lady  in  Flor¬ 
ence  at  that  time,  who  did  not  know  Ida; 
but  she  had  lost  a  little  daughter  herself  by 
the  same  complaint,  and  having  heard  of 
Ida’s  illness,  she  used  to  send  her  her  dinner 
every  day,  choosing  always  the  best  of  every¬ 
thing  from  her  own  table  and  this  she 
continued  to  do  as  long  as  Ida  lived.  This 
good  lady’s  children  went  constantly  to  see 
her,  and  always  asked  to  be  taken  there, 
though  they  could  not  speak  Italian.  Chil¬ 
dren  usually  avoid  a  sick  room,  but  she  was 
so  lovely  and  peaceful  in  appearance,  that 
she  seemed  to  impress  them  more  as  a  beau¬ 
tiful  picture  than  anything  else,  and  they 
were  always  glad  to  go  up  all  the  stairs  to 
look  at  her.  I  remember  the  first  time  that 
they  ever  -went  there,  the  youngest  little  girl 
sat  contemplating  her  for  a  few  minutes  with 
a  sort  of  wonder,  and  then  asked  me,  aside, 
if  she  might  kiss  her. 

I  have  said  before  that  Giulia  wTas  engaged 
to  be  married.  He  lover  lived  at  Rome,  and 
he  was  very  anxious  to  marry  her  as  soon 
as  possible.  She  however  was  not  willing 


i  Pretty  —  as  if  for  her  own  dead  daughter.  —  J.  R. 


50 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


to  leave  her  sister  while  she  was  so  ill ;  and 
at  first  I  felt  as  she  did,  and  did  not  wish  her 
to  go  away  from  Ida.  But  there  were  some 
reasons  why  it  seemed  better  that  she  should 
soon  be  married.  Her  lover,  who  was  strongly 
and  devotedly  attached  to  her,  was  living 
quite  alone  and  among  strangers,  (he  was  a 
Piedmontese,)  and  he  seemed  hardly  able  to 
support  his  long  continued  solitude.  There 
was  another  reason,  stronger  yet.  The  doc¬ 
tor  had  forbidden  Giulia  to  sleep  in  the  same 
room  with  Ida,  and  she  and  little  Luisa  had 
been  obliged  to  return  into  the  dark  closet 
where  they  had  slept  before.  Giulia  was 
looking  poorly,  and  had  a  cough,  and  seemed 
very  much  as  Ida  had  been  a  year  ago ;  and 
we  all  wished  that  she  might  change  scene 
and  climate  before  it  was  too  late.  Still  we 
all  shrank  from  laying  on  Ida,  in  her  last 
days,  this  farther  burden  of  separation  from 
her  dearly  loved,  only  sister. 

It  was  at  once  a  relief  and  a  surprise  to 
me  when,  one  day  that  they  had  left  me 
alone  with  Ida,  she  began  to  speak  to  me 
of  Giulia’s  marriage,  and  asked  me  to  use 
all  my  influence  with  Giulia,  and  with  her 
mother,  to  bring  it  about  as  soon  as  possible. 
She  said  that  she  had  now  only  one  wish  left 
in  the  world,  and  that  was,  to  see  her  sister 
happily  married,  and  that  it  troubled  her  to 


5i 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


see  the  marriage  put  off  from  one  day  to 
another.  Ida’s  word  turned  the  scale,  and 
in  a  few  days  the  whole  household  was 
immersed  in  preparations  for  the  wedding. 
I  ought  to  say  that  the  household  was  much 
reduced  in  number  since  I  had  first  known 
the  family.  One  of  the  little  orphans  had 
been  adopted  into  a  childless  family,  another 
had  gone  to  live  in  the  country  with  his 
maternal  grandmother.  The  prettiest  and 
sweetest  of  them  all,  little  Silvio,  had  died, 
to  the  great  sorrow  of  all  the  family,  at  the 
time  when  Ida  was  at  Viareggio ;  so  that 
now  only  Luisa  was  left  at  home.  The  girl’s 
brother,  Telemaco,  had  obtained  some  sort 
of  government  employment  in  a  distant  part 
of  the  country,  so  that  he  too  was  gone. 
And  only  the  old  people,  and  Luisa  and 
Filomena,  would  be  left  to  take  care  of  Ida 
after  Giulia  should  be  married. 

And  now  it  seemed  as  if  all  poor  Ida’s 
hopes  for  this  world,  which  had  been  so 
cruelly  cut  short,  were  renewed  again  in  her 
enjoyment  of  Giulia’s  happiness.  One  of 
the  prettiest  pictures  that  I  have  in  my  mind 
of  Ida,  is  as  she  sat  upright  in  her  bed, 
propped  up  with  pillows,  her  face  all  beam¬ 
ing  with  affectionate  interest,  and*//*/  her  last 
dress-making  work  on  Giulia's  wedding  gown. 
She  was  very  close  to  Heaven  then,  lying, 


52 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


as  it  were,  at  the  gate  of  the  Celestial  City, 
and  at  times  it  seemed  as  if  the  light  already 
began  to  shine  on  her  face.  Still,  as  long  as 
she  stayed  in  the  world,  she  did  what  she 
could,  and  as  well  as  she  could,  for  those 
about  her,  and  could  put  her  heart  into  the 
smallest  trifle  for  any  one  whom  she  loved. 

She  seemed  always  in  haste  for  the  wed¬ 
ding  day,  and  often  told  me  how  much  she 
wished  for  it;  I  think  that  she  was  afraid 
she  might  not  live  to  see  it.  The  day  came 
at  last,  —  a  soft  beautiful  day  of  the  late 
autumn,  with  plenty  of  flowers  still  in  blos¬ 
som  to  ornament  the  table,  and  the  air  still 
warm  enough  to  make  open  windows  pleas¬ 
ant.  We  had  a  very  pretty  simple  wedding 
at  S.  Lorenzo,  and  then  went  back  to  the 
house,  where  we  found  Ida  up  and  sitting  in 
the  easy  chair,  which  she  had  not  occupied 
for  a  long  time.  She  was  so  excited  and 
interested  that  a  slight  colour  had  comeback 
into  her  face,  and  she  looked  as  well  as  ever, 
and  prettier  than  ever.  Poor  Giulia,  laughing 
and  crying  and  blushing  all  at  once,  hurried 
up  to  Ida,  embraced  her,  and  hid  her  face 
on  her  shoulder.  Ida  folded  her  closely  in 
her  arms  for  a  minute  or  two  without  speak¬ 
ing,  and  I  knew  by  the  look  in  her  face  that 
she  was  giving  thanks  in  silence,  and  praying 
for  a  blessing  on  this  dear  sister.  When 


53 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


the  others  went  into  the  next  room,  where 
the  wedding  breakfast  was  already  set  out 
on  the  table,  they  invited  me  to  go  with 
them,  but  Ida  said,  “Let  Signora  Francesca 
stay  with  me  for  a  few  minutes,  I  want  her 
to  do  something  for  me,  and  then  she  will 
come.”  I  could  not  imagine  what  Ida 
wanted,  she  was  so  little  in  the  habit  of 
wanting  anything;  but  I  stayed,  and  as 
soon  as  she  was  satisfied  that  they  had  shut 
the  door,  she  said  to  me,  looking  very 
pleased  and  triumphant,  “  Do  you  know, 
Signora  Francesca,  I  am  going  to  the  table 
myself !  I  have  always  meant  to  go,  wdien 
Giulia  was  married  ;  and  now  you  will  help 
me  to  dress,  will  you  not  ?  ”  I  was  almost 
frightened,  but  I  helped  her  arrange  the 
lavender-coloured  woollen  dress  which  was 
her  best,  —  I  knew  now  why  she  had  spent  so 
much  time ,  during  the  first  months  of  her 
illness,  in  altering  and  trimming  it, 1  —  and 
tied  her  white  silk  handkerchief  about  her 
neck ;  and  then  she  took  my  arm,  and  we 
wrent  into  the  other  room  together. 

There  was  a  subdued  exclamation  of  sur¬ 
prise  from  the  few  friends  gathered  about 
the  table,  and  then  all  voices  were  hushed, 

i  Think,  girl-reader,  of  the  difference  between  that 
dress  and  a  fashionable  bridesmaid’s  bought  one ! 
—  J.  R. 


54 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


as  she  came  in  slowly,  looking  rather  like  a 
vision  from  the  other  world,  with  her  won¬ 
derful  eyes  and  her  white  illuminated  face 
and  her  beautiful  smile,  and  sat  down  at  the 
table  opposite  to  her  sister.  But  they  were 
soon  laughing  and  talking  again,  and  com¬ 
plimenting  Ida  on  her  improved  health, 
which  enabled  her  to  come  to  the  table,  and 
hoping  that  she  would  soon  be  well  enough 
to  come  there  every  day ;  and  Giulia’s  hus¬ 
band  said  that  when  she  was  a  little  better 
she  must  come  to  Rome  and  stay  with  them, 
where  the  air  would  be  sure  to  do  her  good. 
I  think  she  knew  very  well  that  she  should 
never  sit  at  the  family  table  again,  but  she 
would  not  say  anything  to  sadden  their 
gaiety :  so  she  thanked  them  all,  and  took 
a  little  morsel  of  cake,  and  sat  looking  very 
earnestly  and  affectionately  at  her  sister; 
and  pretty  soon  she  grew  tired,  and  all  the 
loud  voices  jarred  on  her,  so  I  led  her  back 
to  the  chamber.  “  This  was  the  last  wish  I 
had,”  she  said,  after  we  were  alone,  and  she 
had  sunk  back  wearily  into  her  easy  chair, 
“  to  be  with  Giulia  on  her  wedding  day !  and 
now,  if  you  please,  tell  me  all  about  the 
wedding  in  the  church.”  I  described  it  to 
her  as  minutely  as  I  could,  and  she  seemed 
much  interested.  Then  she  wanted  me  to 
read  her  a  chapter  in  the  Bible,  as  was  my 

55 


f 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


habit,  and  after  that  I  left  her.  At  the  head 
of  the  stairs  I  found  myself  waylaid  by 
Giulia,  who  clung  around  my  neck,  weeping 
bitterly  at  parting  with  me,  and  entreated 
me  over  and  over  again  to  be  good  to  Ida 
after  she  should  be  gone  away. 

The  next  day  when  I  went  there  Giulia 
was  gone,  and  Ida  was  quite  weak  and  tired. 
She  was  never  well  enough  to  sit  up  again, 
and  she  faded  away  very  slowly.  The  second 
day  a  letter  came  from  Giulia,  written  almost 
in  the  first  hour  of  her  arrival  in  Rome,  full 
of  overflowing  affection.  Ida  shed  some 
tears  at  this,  but  not  many ;  and  she 
answered  it  with  her  own  hand,  weak  as 
she  was.  One  day,  soon  after  this,  as  I 
was  sitting  beside  Ida,  she  asked  her  mother 
to  leave  us  alone  for  a  few  minutes,  as  she 
wished  to  speak  to  me.  “  Come  a  little 
nearer,”  she  said,  when  we  were  alone ;  and 
I  drew  up  close  to  her  side.  She  took  my 
hand,  and  looked  at  me  solemnly  and  a  little 
sadly.  “  I  have  something,”  she  said,  “  that 
I  have  wanted  to  say  to  you  for  a  long  time  : 
you  are  very  fond  of  me,  Signora  F rancesca  ?  ” 
I  told  her  that  I  had  always  been  so.  “Yes,” 
she  said,  “  but  you  are  much  more  fond  of 
me  since  I  have  been  ill,  than  you  were 
before,  and  you  grow  more  so  every  day ;  I 
see  it  in  a  great  many  ways.”  “  That,”  I 


56 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


said,  “  is  no  more  than  natural ;  I  could  not 
help  it  if  I  would.”  “  And  lately,”  she  con¬ 
tinued,  “I  have  begun  to  be  a  little  afraid  that 
yoit  may  like  me  too  much!”  “Dear  Ida, 
what  do  you  mean?”  “It  is  a  great  com¬ 
fort  to  me,”  she  said,  “  to  have  you  with  me; 
but  sometimes  I  am  afraid  that  if  I  should 
die,  you  might  grieve  about  it,  and  in  that 
case  I  would  rather  that  you  should  not 
come  so  often ;  I  could  not  bear  the  idea  of 
being  a  cause  of  sorrow  to  you.  Now,  I 
want  you  to  promise  that  if  I  die,  you  will 
not  be  unhappy  about  me.”  “  I  promise 
you,”  I  said,  “  that  I  will  think  of  you  always 
as  one  of  the  treasures  laid  up  in  Heaven, 
and  I  shall  always  thank  God  that  He  has 
let  us  be  together  for  so  long.  I  shall  not 
be  unhappy,  but  all  the  happier  as  long  as  I 
live,  for  the  time  that  I  have  passed  in  this 
room.”  Her  face  brightened.  “Then  I  am 
quite  happy,”  she  said ;  “  that  was  what  I 
wanted:  now  let  my  mother  come  back.” 
And  having  once  satisfied  herself  that  I  was 
prepared,  she  never  spoke  to  me  of  dying 
again. 

One  day  a  good  lady  came  to  see  her,  who 
had  known  her  before  her  illness,  and  she 
brought  her  a  pretty  little  silver  medallion 
of  the  Madonna,  which  gave  her  great  pleas¬ 
ure,  and  she  never  let  it  go  out  of  her  sight 


57 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


afterwards,  as  long  as  she  lived.  By  this 
time  Ida  had  become  so  ill  that  she  was 
never  able  to  lie  down,  but  had  to  sit  up  day 
and  night  upright  in  her  bed,  supported  by 
pillows,  and  her  cough  allowed  her  to  sleep 
but  very  little.  The  lady  was  much  troubled 
to  see  her  in  this  state,  and  to  comfort  her, 
she  told  her  that  it  was  necessary  to  suffer 
much  in  this  world  if  one  would  attain  to 
happiness  in  the  other.  Ida  answered,  “  That 
is  my  trouble !  I  ought ,  I  suppose,  to  suffer 
a  little,  but  I  do  not.  I  lie  here  in  the  midst 
of  pleasure .”  This  lady  had  brought  her  a 
little  book  which  she  called  the  book  of 
her  remembrances,  in  which  she  had  copied 
many  prayers  and  pious  reflections  from 
various  old  authors ;  and  because  Ida 
seemed  pleased  with  some  portions  which 
she  read  to  her,  she  left  the  book  with  her, 
saying  that  when  she  had  done  with  it,  she 
might  return  it  to  her.  Ida  kept  this  book 
for  several  days,  so  that  I  once  asked  for  it, 
feeling  a  little  uneasy,  as  I  knew  the  lady 
held  it  very  precious.  She  said  that  she 
should  like  to  keep  it  a  little  longer,  and  I 
did  not  hurry  her.  Two  days  afterwards 
she  gave  it  back  to  me,  asking  me  to  give 
it  to  the  lady,  and  to  ask  her  pardon  for 
having  kept  it  so  long.  “  I  have  added  a 
little  remembrance  of  my  own,”  she  said  ; 


58 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


“  I  have  copied  for  her  my  favourite  prayer : 
I  could  only  write  a  few  words  at  the  time, 
and  that  is  why  I  have  kept  the  book  for  so 
many  days.”  I  looked  at  it ;  it  was  written 
in  a  clear  round  hand,  with  great  pains.  It 
was  a  prayer  for  the  total  conformity  of 
one’s  will  to  the  will  of  God.  I  know  that 
the  lady  for  whom  it  was  written  has  kept  it 
always  as  a  great  treasure. 

“You  are  happy,”  Ida  said  to  me  once, 
“  for  you  are  strong,  and  can  serve  the  Lord 
in  many  ways.”  “  I  hope,”  I  said,  “  that  we 
may  both  be  His  servants,  but  your  service 
is  a  far  more  wearisome  one  than  mine.” 
To  which  she  answered,  with  that  bright 
courageous  smile  of  hers,  “  What  God  sends 
is  never  wearisome,”  —  and  I  know  that 
she  felt  what  she  said.  At  another  time, 
in  thanking  me  for  some  little  service  that 
I  had  done  for  her,  she  said  that  “  I  did  her 
much  good.”  “  You  do  more  for  me,”  I 
answered.  She  looked  a  little  puzzled  for 
a  minute  ;  then,  as  she  took  in  my  meaning, 
she  said,  “  It  is  not  I  who  do  you  good ; 
this  peace  which  you  see  in  me  is  not  mine. 
I  am  nothing  but  a  poor  human  body  with 
a  great  sickness,  which  I  feel  just  as  any 
one  else  would ;  this  peace  is  of  God.” 

About  the  middle  of  December  she  received 
the  communion.  As  she  waited  for  the  arri- 


59 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


val  of  the  sacrament  she  thought  she  saw  a 
beautiful  rainbow,  which  made  an  arch  over 
her  bed,  and  she  saw  it  so  plainly  that  she 
called  her  mother  to  look  at  it,  but  Signora 
Martina  could  see  nothing.  When  she 
found  that  it  was  visible  to  no  eyes  but  her 
own,  she  did  not  speak  of  it  again  to  any 
one ;  only  when  I  asked  her  about  it  she 
acknowledged  that  she  had  seen  it,  and  that 
it  remained  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour: 
adding,  “It  is  well,  —  it  means  peace.” 

She  feared  that  it  might  be  somewhat  of 
a  shock  to  her  sister  to  hear  that  she  had 
taken  the  communion,  as  it  might  give  her 
the  idea  that  she  was  worse;  and  she  wrote 
her  the  news  with  her  own  hand,  thinking 
that  she  could  tell  her  more  gently  than  any 
one  else  could  do.  I  saw  Giulia’s  answer  to 
this  letter.  “  My  dearest  sister,”  she  -wrote, 
“  I  always  knew  that  you  were  more  fit  for 
Heaven  than  Earth,  and  I  only  wish  I  were 
as  near  it  as  you  are !  ” 

One  day  a  little  girl  brought  her  an  olive 
branch,  as  she  said,  to  remind  her  of  the 
one  which  the  dove  brought  to  Noah  in  the 
ark :  probably  the  child  did  not  know  how 
her  olive  branch  came,  like  the  dove’s,  as  a 
token  of  deliverance  close  at  hand ;  but  Ida 
understood  the  significance  of  the  present, 
and  had  the  olive  branch  placed  over  her 


60 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


Madonna,  where  it  seemed  to  be  a  great 
comfort  to  her,  and  it  stayed  there  until  she 
died.  Whenever  the  room  was  dusted  she 
used  to  say,  “Be  careful  and  do  not  hurt 
my  olive  branch  !  ” 

She  still  loved  hymns  and  religious  poetry, 
and  learned  by  heart  many  of  the  verses 
which  I  used  to  sing  or  recite  to  her.  She 
liked  best  those  which  were  most  grand  and 
triumphant.  One  day,  as  I  was  leaving  the 
room,  I  heard  her  saying  to  herself  in  a 
whisper  those  beautiful  lines  of  S.  Francesco 
d’Assisi:  — 

“  Amore,  Amor  Gesu,  son  giunto  a  porto 
Amore,  Amor  Gesu,  da  mi  conforto.” 

She  was  unselfish  in  her  happiness  as  she 
had  been  in  her  sorrow.  One  day  I  found 
her  worse,  much  distressed  and  agitated:  she 
was  sitting  up  in  bed  wfith  her  prayer-book, 
but  there  was  none  of  the  beautiful  peace¬ 
fulness  in  her  face  wThich  always  accompanied 
her  prayers,  —  her  eyes  looked  positively  wfild 
with  grief  and  terror.  With  some  difficulty 
(for  she  had  little  voice  then),  she  explained 
to  us  her  trouble,  entreating  earnestly  Edwige 
and  myself  to  help  her  with  our  prayers.  One 
of  her  neighbours,  a  very  wicked  and  profane 
old  woman,  who  had  been  generally  avoided 
by  all  the  others,  had  met  with  a  sudden 


61 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


and  fearful  accident,  and  had  been  carried 
insensible  to  the  hospital,  where  her  death 
was  hourly  expected.  Ida,  as  her  mother 
afterwards  told  me,  had  not  slept  all  night, 
but  had  continued  in  earnest  and  incessant 
prayer  for  this  woman’s  forgiveness, *  and  so 
she  continued  during  the  few  hours  until  she 
died,  asking  of  all  whom  she  saw  the  charity 
of  a  prayer.  The  poor  woman  died  without 
speaking,  and  only  in  the  next  world  shall 
we  know  whether  Ida’s  prayers  were  heard. 
I  have  never  felt  as  if  they  could  have  been 
altogether  wasted. 

Her  charity  took  in  the  smallest  things  as 
well  as  the  greatest.1 2  Often,  after  leaving 
her,  I  used  to  go  to  see  a  young  lady,  a 
friend  of  hers  and  mine,  who  was  an  invalid 
just  then,  and  she  too  liked  flowers,  so  that 
sometimes  when  I  went  to  Ida’s  room  I 
would  have  two  bunches  of  flowers  in  my 
hands,  one  for  her  and  one  for  our  friend ; 
Ida  would  always  wish  to  see  them  both ; 

1  All  this  is  dreadfully  puzzling  to  me,  —  but  I  must 
not  begin  debating  about  it  here,  only  I  don’t  see  why 
one  wicked  old  woman  should  be  prayed  for  more  than 
another.  —  J.  R. 

2  Yes,  of  course;  but  the  worst  of  these  darling  little 
people  is,  that  they  usually  can’t  take  in  the  greatest 
as  well  as  the  smallest.  Why  didn’t  she  pray  for  the 
King  of  Italy  instead  of  the  old  woman  ?  I  don’t  under¬ 
stand. —  J.  R. 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


that  she  might  be  sure  her  friend’s  flowers 
were  quite  as  pretty  as  her  own,  and  if  there 
wrere  anything  very  beautiful  in  her  bunch, 
shewTould  take  it  out  and  put  it  in  the  other. 
And  yet,  if  she  cared  for  anything  in  this 
world,  she  cared  for  flowers :  her  love  for 
them  amounted  to  a  passion. *  Every  day 
she  would  ask  me  particularly  about  all  our 
acquaintance  who  were  ill,  or  in  any  trouble  ; 
and  sometimes  it  seemed  as  if  she  cared 
more  for  their  small  ailments,  than  for  her 
own  deadly  illness. 

Christmas  Day  came,  her  last  Christmas 
in  this  world;  and  Ida  and  I  arranged 
between  us  to  have  a  little  party  in  her 
room !  Of  course  it  was  very  little  and 
quiet,  because  she  was  so  weak  then.  There 
were  only  the  old  people,  Luisa,  and  her 
little  sister  (the  one  w'ho  had  been  adopted 
into  the  family),  Filomena  and  myself.  But 
the  room  looked  very  pretty ;  Ida  said  it  was 
the  festa  del  Gesu  Bambino  and  she  had  her 
little  picture  of  the  Gesu  Bambino  taken 
down  from  the  wall  and  placed  on  the  table 
beside  her,  all  surrounded  with  flowers  and 
green  branches.  I  arranged  all  this  under 
her  superintendence,  and  then  set  the  table 
for  breakfast  close  to  her  bed,  that  the  family 

i  Just  the  reason  why  she  wouldn’t  take  the  best.  I 
understand  that.  —  J.  R. 


63 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


might  eat  with  her  once  more.  How  pleased 
and  happy  she  was  while  all  this  was  going 
on!  She  was  a  child  to  the  last  in  her 
enjoyment  of  little  things.  Then  they  came 
in ;  but  before  breakfast  she  would  have  me 
read  S.  Luke’s  story  of  the  Nativity,  and 
sing  the  old  Christmas  hymn  — 

“  Mira,  cuor  mio  durissimo, 

II  bel  Bambin  Gesu, 

Che  in  quel  presepe  asprissimo, 

Or  lo  fai  nascer  tu!  ” 

Then  we  all  ate  together;  even  Ida’s  tame 
ringdove,  her  constant  companion  during 
her  illness,  who  was  standing  on  the  pillow 
close  to  her  cheek,  had  his  meal  with  the 
rest. 

And  after  that  came  a  great  surprise ;  Ida 
put  her  hand  under  the  sheet,  and  drew  out, 
one  by  one,  a  little  present  for  each  of  the 
family.  But  this  was  a  little  too  much, 
being  so  unexpected ;  and  when  she  gave 
her  father  his  present,  which  consisted  of 
some  linen  handkerchiefs,  the  poor  old  man, 
after  vainly  trying  once  or  twice  to  speak, 
dropped  his  head  with  an  uncontrollable 
burst  of  sobs,  and  was  obliged,  in  a  few 
minutes,  to  leave  the  room;  and  so  ended 
Ida’s  last  festa.  The  next  day  I  found  her 
hemming  one  of  the  handkerchiefs  for  her 
father;  it  was  the  last  work  that  she  ever 


64 


THE  STORY'OF  IDA 


did,  and  it  took  her  several  days  to  finish  it, 
a  few  stitches  at  a  time. 

I  am  coming  to  the  end  of  my  story  now. 
Soon  after  that,  she  began  to  be  much  worse, 
and  we  saw  that  we  had  her  for  only  a  few 
days.  Ou  the  last  day  of  the  old  year  I  was 
with  her  in  the  morning,  and  found  her  very 
weak,  and,  I  feared,  suffering  much,  though 
she  made  no  complaint,  and  seemed  to  enjoy 
my  reading  as  much  as  usual.  I  left  her, 
promising  to  come  again  the  next  morning. 
About  three  o’clock  the  same  day,  as  I  sat 
at  work,  little  Luisa  came  to  my  room,  and 
said  that  Ida  had  fallen  asleep,  and  they 
could  not  waken  her.  I  immediately  went 
home  with  the  child,  and  Edwige  also  came 
with  us,  as  she  was  in  my  room  at  the  time. 
It  was  a  dark,  wet,  gloomy  day,  but  not  cold ; 
and  we  found  Ida’s  room  all  open  to  the  air, 
as  usual.  I  had  feared,  from  what  the  child 
said,  to  find  Ida  dead;  but  instead  of  that 
she  was  really  in  a  deep  and  most  peaceful 
sleep,  sitting  upright  in  the  bed,  with  her 
face  to  the  window.  Everything  about  her 
was  white;  but  her  face  was  whiter  than 
the  linen  —  at  least  it  appeared  so,  being  so 
full  of  light;  only  her  lips  had  still  a  rosy 
colour.  Her  dark  hair  fell  over  her  shoul¬ 
ders,  and  one  hand  lay  on  the  outside  of  the 
sheet ;  her  hand  did  not  look  wasted  any 


65 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


more,  but  was  beautiful,  as  when  I  used  to 
paint  it. 

We  all  stood  about  her  in  tears,  fearing 
every  minute  lest  her  quiet  breathing  should 
cease  —  for  her  mother  had  been  vainly  trying 
for  some  time  to  awaken  her,  and  none  of 
us  knew  what  this  long  sleep  meant  —  when 
all  at  once  the  sun,  which  had  been  all  day 
obscured,  just  as  it  was  setting,  came  out 
from  behind  a  cloud ;  and  shining  through 
the  open  window  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
framed  in  a  square  of  light  the  beautiful 
patient  face,  and  the  white  dress,  and  the 
white  pillow,  while  the  weeping  family  about 
the  bed  remained  in  shadow.  I  never  saw 
anything  so  solemn  and  overpowering;  no 
one  felt  like  speaking;  we  stood  and  looked 
on  in  silence,  as  this  last  ray  of  light  of  the 
year  1872,  the  year  which  had  been  so  full 
of  events  to  Ida,  after  resting  on  her  for  a 
few  minutes,  gradually  faded  away. 

Soon  afterwards  she  awToke,  and  seemed 
refreshed  by  her  sleep,  and  said  she  had 
been  dreaming  she  was  in  a  beautiful  green 
field.  After  this  she  slept  much,  which 
•was  a  mercy ;  and  would  often  drop  asleep 
through  weakness,  even  while  we  were 
speaking  to  her.  In  these  last  days  she 
wanted  me  always  to  read  her  passages 
from  S.  Paul;  and  the  epistles  of  S.  Paul 


66 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


have  become  so  associated  with  her  in  my 
mind,  that  I  can  never  read  them  without 
thinking  of  her,  as  I  am  constantly  coming 
to  some  of  her  favourite  verses.  I  see  now, 
as  I  look  at  these  verses,  that  they  are,  with¬ 
out  exception,  those  that  express  our  utter 
helplessness,  and  the  perfect  sufficiency  of 
the  Saviour;  two  truths  —  or  rather  one, 
for  they  cannot  be  separated  —  which  had 
become  profoundly  impressed  on  her  mind, 
and  which  she,  as  it  were,  lived  on  during 
her  illness. 

About  a  week  before  her  death,  as  Edwige 
was  sitting  alone  by  her,  she  said,  “  This  can 
last  but  a  very  few  days  now :  pray  for  me, 
that  I  may  have  patience  for  the  little  time 

that  remains.”  Then  she  spoke  of  L - , 

and  said  that  she  could  not  bear  to  hear 
people  say,  that  he  had  caused  her  death  by 
deserting  her.  “  It  was  my  own  wish,”  she 
said,  “  to  part  from  him ;  and  it  would  have 
been  better  if  we  had  parted  before.”*  With 
her  usual  care  for  his  good  name,  of  which 
he  was  himself  so  careless,  she  said  nothing 
of  the  reason  for  which  she  had  wished  to 
part  from  him,  but  let  it  pass  as  a  caprice 
of  her  own.  Then  she  asked  Edwige,  as  a 

i  Take  care,  girl-reader,  that  you  do  not  take  this  for 
pride.  She  is  only  thinking  of  shielding  her  lover  from 
blame,  so  far  as  truth  might.  —  J.  R. 


C7 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


last  favour,  to  help  Filomena  dress  her  for 
her  grave,  in  case  that  her  mother  should 
not  feel  strong  enough  to  do  so.  She  seemed 
to  shrink  from  the  idea  of  being  put  into  the 
hands  of  a  stranger. 

After  this  she  often  asked  for  the  prayers 
of  those  about  her,  and  always  that  she 
might  have  patience  until  the  end.  She 
never  asked  us  to  pray  for  the  safety  of  her 
soul,  for  she  was  half  in  heaven  already, 
and  the  time  for  doubting  and  fearing  was 
over.  I  think  it  was  on  Friday  that  she 
spoke  to  her  mother  about  her  funeral,  and 
tried  to  arrange  everything  so  as  to  save 
trouble  and  expense  to  the  family.  That 
night  she  was  in  much  pain,  and  not  able  to 
sleep,  which  greatly  distressed  her  mother ; 
but  she  said,  “Why  do  you  mind,  mother? 
I  shall  have  all  eternity  to  rest  in.”  On 
Saturday  morning,  as  usual,  she  asked  me 
to  read  her  something  of  S.  Paul.  I  read 
the  fourth  chapter  of  the  second  epistle  to 
the  Corinthians.  As  I  came  to  the  verse, 
“We  having  the  same  spirit  of  faith,  accord¬ 
ing  as  it  is  written,  *  I  believed,  and  therefore 
have  I  spoken,’  we  also  believe,  and  there¬ 
fore  speak,”  I  looked  up  to  see  if  she  were 
able  to  attend,  and  I  saw  her  face  all  lighted 
up,  and  she  whispered,  or  rather  her  lips 
formed  the  wTord  “beautiful.”  But  as  I 


68 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


came  to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  that  uncon¬ 
querable  drowsiness  came  over  her,  and  she 
fell  asleep.  I  never  read  to  her  again. 

On  Sunday  she  was  worse  —  slept  almost 
all  the  time ;  and  when  she  was  awake, 
wandered  a  little  in  her  mind,  thinking  that 
she  saw  birds  flying  about  the  room.  On 
Monday,  when  I  went  to  her,  I  found  her 
asleep ;  and  though  I  stayed  some  little 
time,  she  did  not  awake.  I  knew  she  would 
be  disappointed  not  to  see  me ;  so,  as  I  had 
some  things  to  do,  I  went  awTay,  telling  her 
mother  that  I  would  come  back  soon.  On 
my  return  I  was  met  on  the  stairs  by  one  of 
the  neighbours,  who  had  been  watching  for 
me  at  her  door.  “  She  is  worse  !  ”  she  said  ; 
“  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  for  fear  that  it  should 
shock  you  too  much  to  see  her,  without 
knowing  it  beforehand.”  I  thanked  her, 
and  hurried  up  to  Ida.  The  priest,  who  had 
been  very  kind  all  through  her  illness,  was 
sitting  by  the  bed,  and  a  crucifix  and  prayer- 
book  were  lying  on  it  by  Ida’s  side.  She 
had  changed  much  in  the  one  hour  since  I 
had  left  her  sleeping  so  quietly.  The  pecul¬ 
iar  unmistakable  look  of  death  was  on  her 
face,  and  she  seemed  much  distressed  for 
breath.  I  paused  at  the  door,  and  the  priest 
asked  me  to  come  in.  Ida  turned  her  eyes, 
from  which  the  light  was  fast  fading,  toward 


69 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


me,  and  the  old  smile  came  back  to  her  face 
as  bright  and  courageous  as  ever.  “  God 
gives  you  courage  still,  I  see,  Ida!”  I  said 
to  her,  as  I  came  up  to  her  side.  She 
could  not  speak,  but  she  nodded  her  head 
emphatically.  Then  she  made  a  sign  for  me 
to  sit  down  in  my  old  place,  near  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  where  her  eyes  could  rest  on  my 
face ;  and  there  I  sat  through  almost  the 
whole  of  that  sad  yet  beautiful  day.  Once 
she  made  a  sign  for  me  to  come  near  her ;  I 
thought  she  had  something  to  say  to  me, 
and  I  put  my  face  close  to  hers,  that  I  might 
understand  her;  but  she  did  not  speak,  only 
kissed  me  twice  over.  That  was  her  farew’ell 
to  me. 

All  day  long  she  alternated  between  sleep 
and  periods  of  great  distress  for  breath. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  day,  as  she  awoke 
out  of  a  sort  of  stupor,  her  face  became  very 
beautiful,  with  a  beauty  not  of  this  world. 
It  was  that  bellezza  della  morte,  which  is  seen 
sometimes  in  great  saints,  or  in  innocent 
little  children,  when  they  are  passing  away. 
I  cannot  describe  it.  I  suppose  it  is  what 
the  old  Jews  saw  in  the  face  of  S.  Stephen, 
when  it  became  “  like  the  face  of  an  angel.” 
Certainly  it  was  more  like  heaven  than  any¬ 
thing  else  we  ever  see  in  this  world.  She 
looked  at  me,  then  at  her  mother,  with  a 


70 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


smile  of  wonderful  joy  and  intelligence ; 
then  raised  her  eyes  towards  heaven  with  a 
look,  as  it  were,  of  joyful  recognition, — 
perhaps  she  saw  something  that  we  could 
not,  —  and  her  face  was  in  a  manner  trans¬ 
figured,  as  if  a  ray  of  celestial  light  had 
fallen  on  it.  This  lasted  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  then  she  dropped  asleep.  When  even¬ 
ing  came  on,  they  sent  for  me  to  come  home. 
She  seemed  a  little  better  just  then,  and 
when  I  asked  if  she  were  willing  that  I 
should  leave  her,  she  nodded  and  whispered, 
“  To-morrow  morning .”  About  seven  o’clock 
that  evening,  without  any  warning,  she  sud¬ 
denly  threw  her  arms  wide  open,  her  head 
dropped  on  her  bosom,  —  and  she  was  gone. 

The  next  morning,  when  I  went  to  the 
house,  she  was  laid  down  on  the  bed,  for  the 
first  time  for  two  or  three  months.  The 
heap  of  pillows  and  cushions  and  blankets 
and  shawls  had  all  been  taken  away,  and 
she  lay  looking  very  happy  and  peaceful, 
with  a  face  like  white  wax.  Even  her  lips 
were  perfectly  white  at  last ;  they  were  closed 
in  a  very  pleasant  smile.  I  went  into  the 
next  room,  where  the  family  were  all  sitting 
together.  The  poor  mother  gave  me  a  letter 
which  Ida  had  written  and  consigned  to 
Lena,  (an  intimate  friend  of  hers,)  a  few 
days  before  her  death,  with  directions  to  give 


7i 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


it  to  her  mother  as  soon  as  she  should  be 
gone.  In  this  letter  she  disposed  of  what 
little  she  had  in  money  and  ornaments. 

She  had  never  bought  any  ornament  for 
herself,  but  several  had  been  given  to  her, 
and  she  divided  them,  as  she  best  could, 
among  her  relations  and  friends.  Most  of 
the  letter,  however,  was  taken  up  with  trying 
to  comfort  her  father  and  mother.  She 
thanked  them  with  the  utmost  tenderness 
for  all  that  they  had  done  for  her,  especially 
in  her  illness,  and  entreated  them  not  to 
mourn  very  much  for  her;  reminding  them 
that,  if  she  had  lived  a  long  life,  she  would 
probably  have  suffered  much  more  than  she 
had  done.  She  left  many  affectionate  and 
comforting  messages  to  her  brother,  her 
sister,  and  various  friends.  She  also  left 
many  directions  for  her  burial,  —  among 
others,  that  a  crucifix,  which  her  dear  old 
friend  Edwige  had  given  her  on  New  Year’s 
day,  should  be  placed  on  her  bosom,  and 
buried  with  her.  So  the  letter  must  have 
been  written  after  New  Year,  at  a  time  when 
she  suffered  greatly,  and  was  too  ill  and 
weak  almost  to  speak ;  and  yet,  not  only  did 
she  enter  into  the  smallest  particulars  (even 
to  leaving  her  black  dress  to  Filomena,  and 
advising  her  to  alter  the  trimming  on  some 
other  clothes ,  so  as  not  to  spend  for  the  mourn- 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


ing),  but  she  even  took  the  pains  to  zvrite  the 
whole  letter  in  a  very  large  round  hand,  that 
her  mother,  whose  sight  was  failing,  might 
read  it  without  difficulty.  A  little  money 
which  she  had  in  the  savings  bank,  and 
which  was  to  have  been  her  dowry,  she  left 
to  her  beloved  sister  Giulia.  To  me  she 
left  a  ring  and  some  of  her  hair.  I  read 
this  letter  aloud  amid  the  sobs  of  the  family, 
which  came  the  more  as  each  one  heard  his 
or  her  own  name  recorded  with  so  much 
affection.  We  went  back  into  her  room, 
and  her  mother  opened  the  little  drawer  in 
the  table  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  where  she 
had  kept  her  few  treasures,  and  took  out  the 
little  ring  which  she  had  left  me,  and  put  it 
on  my  finger  without  speaking,  as  we  stood 
by  Ida’s  side.  Then  I  went  awTay  to  find 
some  flowers  —  the  last  flowers  that  I  was 
ever  to  bring  to  Ida  !  The  first  lilies  of  the 
valley  came  that  day,  and  I  was  glad  to  have 
them  for  her,  for  they  were  her  favourite 
flowers. 

Late  in  the  day  I  went  back  to  sit,  for  the 
last  time,  a  little  by  Ida’s  bedside.  Edwige 
and  Filomena  had  dressed  her  then  for  her 
grave,  and  very  lovely  she  looked.  She 
wore  a  simple  loose  dress  of  white  muslin ; 
her  beautiful  dark  hair,  parted  in  the  middle, 
was  spread  over  her  shoulders  and  bosom, 


73 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


and  covered  her  completely  to  the  waist. 
Edwige’s  crucifix  and  a  small  bunch  of  sweet 
flowers  lay  on  her  bosom.  Her  little  waxen 
hands,  beautiful  still  as  in  life,  were  not 
crossed  stiffly,  but  retained  all  their  flexible 
grace,  as  they  lay  one  in  the  other,  one  of 
them  holding  a  white  camellia.  A  large 
garland,  sent  by  the  same  friend  who  had 
for  so  long  supplied  her  with  flowers,  was 
laid  on  the  bed,  enclosing  her  whole  person 
as  in  a  frame.  Sometimes  these  garlands 
are  made  altogether  of  white  flowers  for  a 
young  girl ;  but  Ida  had  been  always  so  fond 
of  bright  colours,  and  of  everything  cheerful 
and  pleasant,  and  her  passing  away  had 
been  so  happy,  that  it  seemed  more  natural 
in  her  garland  to  have  roses  and  violets 
and  jonquils,  and  all  the  variety  of  flowers. 
There  was  not  one  too  gay  for  her !  Six  wax 
torches  in  large  tall  candlesticks,  brought 
from  the  church,  stood  about  her;  the  good 
priest  sent  those. 

We  all  sat  down  beside  her  for  a  while, 
and  I  felt  as  if  I  should  never  be  ready  to 
leave  her ;  but  at  last  it  grew  late,  and  I  had 
to  come  away.  For  a  minute  at  the  door  I 
turned  back,  and  wiped  away  the  tears,  that 
I  might  take  one  more  look  at  the  beautiful 
face  smiling  among  the  flowers ;  then  I 
passed  on,  and  my  long,  happy  attendance  in 


74 


THE  STORY  OF  IDA 


that  chamber  was  over.  That  night,  when 
she  was  carried  away,  the  artist  who  had 
long  wished  to  paint  her  portrait  followed 
her  to  S.  Caterina,  where  all  the  dead  of 
Florence  are  laid  for  one  night,  and  went  in 
and  drew  her  likeness  by  lamplight.  All  the 
servants  employed  about  the  establishment 
gathered  about  her,  wondering  at  her  beauty. 

Ida  is  buried  in  the  poor  people’s  burying 
ground  at  Trespiano.  Edwige  went  to  see 
her  grave  a  while  ago,  and  found  it  all 
grown  over  with  little  wild  “  morning 
glories.”  There  is  a  slab  of  white  marble 
there,  with  the  inscription,  “  Ida,  aged  nine¬ 
teen,  fell  asleep  in  the  peace  of  the  Lord, 
20th  January,  1873”;  and  over  the  inscrip¬ 
tion  is  carved  a  dove  with  a  branch  of  olive  in 
its  beak.  I  miss  her  much,  but  I  remember 
my  promise  to  her,  and  there  has  never  been 
any  bitterness  in  my  grief  for  Ida.  She 
does  not  seem  far  away;  she  was  so  near 
Heaven  before,  that  we  cannot  feel  that  she 
has  gone  a  very  long  journey. 

THE  END. 


PRINTED  BY 
SMITH  &  SALE 
PORTLAND 
MAINE 


/ 


5 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 
AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


PRESENTED  BY 

Dr.  Thomas  W.  Farmer 


RARE  BOOK  COLLECTION 

PS1029 
.  A17 
S7 

1899 


s 


